New Leaf
Well-Known Member
Aloha all,
I haven’t posted in a long time, been focused this summer on helping my Hoku through a severe birth trauma that had her hospitalized and immobile for a few months after delivering her beautiful baby. Thankfully baby is just fine and Hoku is on the mend.
Tornado ended up back in jail (again) for violating probation (again) for a case from 2018 that has dragged on due to her non compliance ( I am assuming, because I don’t go to court.)
Prison.
Sometimes I feel as if I have been imprisoned by my two waywards addiction and subsequent decline to living on the streets in the same off and on manner.
I can go for spans where I have fleeting thoughts, but say a quick prayer to calm my mind, and it works. Honestly, it is easier when I have no contact, then BOOM- incarceration affords my daughter the ability (time mainly and forced sobriety) to try to contact me, that’s when my brain goes into hyper mode and I reel those tapes and the endless “what ifs”.
I have kept to my resolve to not fund her phone calls this time. I need space, time to heal, time to rethink my relationship or lack thereof with my adult daughter. In the past prison stints, I have picked up the phone, paid into her account. Some conversations were okay, others more or less laced with manipulation and expectations of money put in her account for phone privileges, etc. sigh. She asks to come home, that she “knows she will get better here.” I know that is a pipe dream (pardon the pun). But it still hurts a mothers heart to have to say no.
Oh Gawd, is it a full moon or something?
Can I get a break from all of this? How am I to keep my sanity? Is it too late already?
Then come the letters.
Letter to her daughter, who I have been blessed with raising, just 14 now. Her mothers words intertwined with revelations of finding Jesus,(again) sugared with professions of love and spiced with a dry addicts manipulation “I just need to come home.”
My granddaughter, long a victim and student of trauma based lifestyle, street smart, yet vulnerable at the same time, does not fall
for it. I don’t pry, these last three years have taught me that she will talk about it when she is ready, but her sadness shows through songs she plays and the need for more personal space. She does not want to live that way ever again, and I have promised her and myself that her mother will not live here.
Letter to me- I read it and I don’t even know how to read it, if you know what I mean? So I go over it several times, then go through days of trying to figure out how to respond. Do I want to even respond? Deep down inside I’m feeling that anything I write will be used against me in “her court of law.”
Why am I so damn obsessed? I feel like I’ve developed so many different voices in my head, the sensible one, sees through the manipulation, the heart wrenched mother voice “How will she recover if no one stands by her?” The angry voice “How could she get high up until delivery and jeopardize her unborn?”
I come here to remind myself of where I have been, the roller coaster and yo-yo-ing. I am trying to rise up the version of strong me, but find myself choking on the “resurrected through contact” marionette version dancing frantically about held hostage through pulled heart strings
and the master puppetry of addicted love ones. My mind screaming “DETACH, DETACH!”
I need a James Cagney to slap my face and shake me by the shoulders and shout “Get a hold of yourself!”
For now, I will allow myself to feel the sorrow of having two meth addicted adult daughters. I am not a stone pillar, I am human. I admit it, I am terribly weak, I feel this big empty chasm within. A black hole.
I am quoting Copa from her reply to Helpless because her wisdom has always helped.
“There is the possibility that this will be his lifestyle for the foreseeable future. The same is true for my son. Why are we along for the ride? Remember that children's book, I think it was called. Oh, The Places We'll Go.”
I have the book and never imagined this. This is true for my daughter as well, this may well be her lifestyle.
Thank you to anyone who read through this crazy mess. Gulp. I will be okay. I think. Well, I have to be. That sure can’t be dependent upon whether or not my two sort their lives out, that’s for sure.
Sigh
Leaf
I haven’t posted in a long time, been focused this summer on helping my Hoku through a severe birth trauma that had her hospitalized and immobile for a few months after delivering her beautiful baby. Thankfully baby is just fine and Hoku is on the mend.
Tornado ended up back in jail (again) for violating probation (again) for a case from 2018 that has dragged on due to her non compliance ( I am assuming, because I don’t go to court.)
Prison.
Sometimes I feel as if I have been imprisoned by my two waywards addiction and subsequent decline to living on the streets in the same off and on manner.
I can go for spans where I have fleeting thoughts, but say a quick prayer to calm my mind, and it works. Honestly, it is easier when I have no contact, then BOOM- incarceration affords my daughter the ability (time mainly and forced sobriety) to try to contact me, that’s when my brain goes into hyper mode and I reel those tapes and the endless “what ifs”.
I have kept to my resolve to not fund her phone calls this time. I need space, time to heal, time to rethink my relationship or lack thereof with my adult daughter. In the past prison stints, I have picked up the phone, paid into her account. Some conversations were okay, others more or less laced with manipulation and expectations of money put in her account for phone privileges, etc. sigh. She asks to come home, that she “knows she will get better here.” I know that is a pipe dream (pardon the pun). But it still hurts a mothers heart to have to say no.
Oh Gawd, is it a full moon or something?
Can I get a break from all of this? How am I to keep my sanity? Is it too late already?
Then come the letters.
Letter to her daughter, who I have been blessed with raising, just 14 now. Her mothers words intertwined with revelations of finding Jesus,(again) sugared with professions of love and spiced with a dry addicts manipulation “I just need to come home.”
My granddaughter, long a victim and student of trauma based lifestyle, street smart, yet vulnerable at the same time, does not fall
for it. I don’t pry, these last three years have taught me that she will talk about it when she is ready, but her sadness shows through songs she plays and the need for more personal space. She does not want to live that way ever again, and I have promised her and myself that her mother will not live here.
Letter to me- I read it and I don’t even know how to read it, if you know what I mean? So I go over it several times, then go through days of trying to figure out how to respond. Do I want to even respond? Deep down inside I’m feeling that anything I write will be used against me in “her court of law.”
Why am I so damn obsessed? I feel like I’ve developed so many different voices in my head, the sensible one, sees through the manipulation, the heart wrenched mother voice “How will she recover if no one stands by her?” The angry voice “How could she get high up until delivery and jeopardize her unborn?”
I come here to remind myself of where I have been, the roller coaster and yo-yo-ing. I am trying to rise up the version of strong me, but find myself choking on the “resurrected through contact” marionette version dancing frantically about held hostage through pulled heart strings
and the master puppetry of addicted love ones. My mind screaming “DETACH, DETACH!”
I need a James Cagney to slap my face and shake me by the shoulders and shout “Get a hold of yourself!”
For now, I will allow myself to feel the sorrow of having two meth addicted adult daughters. I am not a stone pillar, I am human. I admit it, I am terribly weak, I feel this big empty chasm within. A black hole.
I am quoting Copa from her reply to Helpless because her wisdom has always helped.
“There is the possibility that this will be his lifestyle for the foreseeable future. The same is true for my son. Why are we along for the ride? Remember that children's book, I think it was called. Oh, The Places We'll Go.”
I have the book and never imagined this. This is true for my daughter as well, this may well be her lifestyle.
I try not to worry, it does nothing but cause stress, but it is essentially my first name. I swallow worry down like a large pill that scrapes the sides of my throat and leaves a sensation like it is still there. Worry, stuck in my throat. Evolving into imagined scenarios of what may or may not be. I wish I could be a stoic like my Dad. What is, is, and all of that. I try, but it does not come easily. You are right Copa, circumstances will not be altered, we have absolutely no control over another adults choices.As mothers, we are programmed to worry. This worry has a basis in the mistaken belief we can do something to alter circumstances. We cannot.
This hit me. Even thinking of them creates toxicity. That is where I am at. In a stinking toxic sludge pool. I have to get out.I know you are not contemplating actively engaging with your son. However, I am beginning to think that even thinking of them creates toxicity. What a in mess.
Thank you to anyone who read through this crazy mess. Gulp. I will be okay. I think. Well, I have to be. That sure can’t be dependent upon whether or not my two sort their lives out, that’s for sure.
Sigh
Leaf