Looking out my Backdoor: It's a mess

When one thinks it can’t get worse, it can. And it does.

This coming Feb. 20 would have been my son’s sixth sobriety birthday.

I considered a thousand different ways of talking about this and each one led to, “Just vomit it out.”

In “Looking Out My Backdoor,” I write about what is pertinent in my life. And I vowed to be honest with myself and honest with you.

My son, Ben, this man who is super-intelligent with a computer mind, this man with such a big heart that, a year ago, he gave up a month of his life to come to Mexico to care for me when I needed it, this man slipped off the rails. This man I love more than my own life.

I’m so angry that I could chew nails and spit tacks, each tack to nail his hide to the wall after I peal it off his body with a dull bread knife.

Nearly 10 years ago my son decided to try out the world of mind-altering chemicals and lost his job, his wife, his home, his daughter, his family, his self-respect. His mind.

Of course, eventually, Ben landed in jail long enough and low enough to ask to enter an intensive in-jail treatment program. A year later he was out of jail, still in an intensive out-patient part of the same program for another year.

Over time he got a job, began paying debts, cleaning up his life, got a home, got a girlfriend, got his family back. Six years, six years clean and sober and now this. There is no explanation.

A couple months ago, Ben landed in the ER with coronavirus, later followed by seizures. Then a brief reprieve, as far as I know. Then a few days ago, back in the ER with seizures again. The hospital sent him home. They do a blood test, first thing, you know. Which came first, the alcohol or the seizures?

And my heart is broken. The first night of realization I soaked my pillow with tears that leaked from my eyes through no volition on my part.

I’ve been here before. I know I cannot carry this burden alone. First I talked with my daughter and then with a couple very dear friends in Washington who are close to both me and to my son, who’ve been down this road with me. They will move forward with intervention, if possible.

Each morning, I go outside to walk-the-lanes to air out my head. Along the way, I meet one neighbor and then another. I cannot hide my grief and despair. They ask, “How are you?” I cannot answer, “Fine.” “Fine” is perhaps the most frequent lie told. I tell my story.

One neighbor then shared his story about his wife’s nephew. Yes, I remember him, I said. He used to be around here all the time. Well, his mother is just waiting for him to overdose. I am not alone.

Another friend told me about his daughter’s fiancé, now gone, leaving a trail of tears. I am not alone.

Yet another told me about a sister’s husband, who also re-entered that dark world after a time of sobriety. I am not alone.

I doubt there is anybody not touched by this horrible disease of alcoholism-and-drug-addiction, all the same in how it affects the vulnerable person and his/her family. And to have it strike during the coronavirus plague, a double whammy, more than we can bear.

There is always a chance that early intervention will shake my son back onto his path. It’s up to him. Twenty-four hours of sobriety is better than the alternative.

I share this story with you because I cannot bear it alone. If my story helps even one person who also has a family member in a world of hurt, then it is worth me baring my soul.

We are not alone. And we do have help if we choose to use it. We might find help among our friends and neighbors, at church, at a group program, a treatment center just for us. This is a disease. There is no shame. A secret aired is a secret with no power to hurt us.

I keep in mind the Three Cs of Alanon: I (You) didn’t cause it. I (You) cannot control it. I (You) cannot cure it.

I am completely powerless over this dread disease. There is help for you and me just as there is for the addict/alcoholic. Even with my heart broken, with tears on my cheeks, I can find serenity in the midst of this chaos. I love my son with a never-ending love. And we are not alone.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].