A jail ministry just underway at my church is about letter writing to prisoners. My friend Lou is great at this while I am barely getting started. With that new commitment there's a little bit of nagging guilt, because I'm not so great at writing to Cliff. We do talk once a week, sometimes twice, by phone. Nonetheless, I know that mail is so important to the incarcerated because it's something tangible in their hands from one who cares. It gives them something else to think about other than what's going on inside their concrete, lock down domicile. I've promised in my heart to do a better job at writing to Cliff as I tend to take on a few others.
In the times we live, it's rare to get "happy" mail. Many people have opted to use email for everything. E-cards are big too, especially for those who have become friends without ever having met. Yesterday, at the end of a busy week I was more than grateful to get home and turn off the car. Ambling out to the mailbox I expected to find the usual junk waiting for me. Lots of unwanted ads, solicitations or my favorite, "please remit your payment to". Everyone wants a piece of me!
Pulling the door open on the mailbox, I peered in as if something might jump out at me. Instead it looked about empty except for a few thin envelopes laying in wait.
My eyes blinked a few times because both envelopes were handwritten with my name on them. Not "To the occupant"; not "To The Homeowner", but my name in bold print. Already a feeling of hope and excitement grabbed my attention!
First, was an envelope anonymously sent to me with some gas cards and spending cards at the local Meijers! What a blessing and what a surprise. How timely could this be? Only God knows that today I'm going to a class at church to help me, at the ripe old age of 53 1/2, learn how to manage my hard earned money. Coming out of years of the insanity circle, I have so much to learn about budgeting and actually completing all the promises to pay (and meant to do) debts. I'm sure by now on some creditors lists I am listed as a scammer or a liar (ouch). I have always intended to take care of business but the hand of chaos was a step ahead of everyone else. But as a daughter of the King, I need to take care of business in every area of my life. So now, with an actual exuberance, I am preparing to go to my class this morning. I see a little light ahead of me taking me to the clearing that is meant for me. Ahhhhh, what a relief it is!
Second, was an envelope with familiar writing. It's from Cliff. A card that says "I love you, Mom" and a scribbled note of thanks for always supporting and believing in him. A card that holds rank with all the other beautiful Hallmark cards that have passed my way. In fact, it may mean more because it's not attached to a hand asking for a hand-out or a favor. It's not attached to meaningless words or lies to get something more. It's a simple and graceful "thank you." Letter writing to inmates can lift their spirits. A letter back to a waiting loved one is more than gold.
I'm a happy Pollyanna today!
I Lost Him
Getting another call from the school to find out that Cliff wasn't in class that day had me reeling by the time I got home. Being a single parent, I often had to work or try to work through the increasingly many phone calls that came my way through the course of a day, week or month. I didn't have a job with flexibility that allowed me to bolt when I wanted to go on a hunt.
Never knowing, absolutely never knowing what I was going to walk into often had my teeth on edge and my blood boiling overtime. That day was no different. Finally getting home my eye glanced quickly around the house and I knew Cliff hadn't yet been home.
Speed walking to the park located behind our complex I had a feeling I might find him there. Lo and behold, I could see him across the way talking to a couple of guys on bicycles. Suddenly hauling my full-figured arse across the park, I was determined to catch up to all of them. I thought I was running like the wind and looked like O.J. Simpson in the car rental commercial when, in fact, I probably sounded and looked like Refrigerator Perry (football ladies, football) herding across the field. No matter which, I was determined to get my hands on someone today. It felt like Cliff was slipping through my fingers like liquid jello and I was trying so hard to hold it all in my cupped hands.
Once the bike riders saw me approaching, they took off FAST. When I reached Cliff it was clear that he was on something; I just didn't know what it was and he wasn't talking. I became more angry and enraged as he didn't divulge any information. Cliff was still, in some ways, my son. He didn't argue back and he didn't take off when I told him we were getting in the car and going to the police station. Maybe he couldn't argue back or take off. Maybe whatever he was on had him so disconnected that he didn't give two cents about what I was "waaa, waaa, waaaing" about at the time. I still felt though, that I had a little bit of a chance with Cliff. At home he didn't always argue, and he was somewhat cooperative at times but his toes were on the edge of the world looking down into the ravine.
Dragging him with me into the police station, we were escorted into a detective's office and asked to wait a few minutes. About three minutes later a sergeant came in and asked how he could help me. I said, "I brought my son here because I just caught him in the park and he's been using something. He's skipping school, doesn't come home when he should and most of the time I can't tell you where he is." Silence for a full thirty seconds. Then the bomb dropped.
"What do you want me to do, lady?"
I want you to tear my heart out now and feed it to a bear. I want you to pull my fingernails out one by one and let me scream forever. I want you to put me out of my misery, please!
"Can't you put him in community service or something? Can't we do something??"
"Sorry, lady. If he hasn't been court ordered, we don't have any program or right to require him or force him to do anything."
Feeling so utterly frustrated that day, we went home. Cliff began to go further and further out, with less and less regard for me, for the rules of our house and most importantly less regard for his own life.
I lost him that day. Shortly after that encounter, we began our trip of being court ordered for many things that never seemed to really be enforced. The system tells you what you must do and what the repercussions will be but it seems that even those consequences are rarely backed up until you step over the line to the point of incarceration.
It's the criminal behavior that gets noticed and managed. Not the addiction. He's free to continue in his addiction as long as he does it without getting noticed.
Have we made any progress in treating this sickness??
Never knowing, absolutely never knowing what I was going to walk into often had my teeth on edge and my blood boiling overtime. That day was no different. Finally getting home my eye glanced quickly around the house and I knew Cliff hadn't yet been home.
Speed walking to the park located behind our complex I had a feeling I might find him there. Lo and behold, I could see him across the way talking to a couple of guys on bicycles. Suddenly hauling my full-figured arse across the park, I was determined to catch up to all of them. I thought I was running like the wind and looked like O.J. Simpson in the car rental commercial when, in fact, I probably sounded and looked like Refrigerator Perry (football ladies, football) herding across the field. No matter which, I was determined to get my hands on someone today. It felt like Cliff was slipping through my fingers like liquid jello and I was trying so hard to hold it all in my cupped hands.
Once the bike riders saw me approaching, they took off FAST. When I reached Cliff it was clear that he was on something; I just didn't know what it was and he wasn't talking. I became more angry and enraged as he didn't divulge any information. Cliff was still, in some ways, my son. He didn't argue back and he didn't take off when I told him we were getting in the car and going to the police station. Maybe he couldn't argue back or take off. Maybe whatever he was on had him so disconnected that he didn't give two cents about what I was "waaa, waaa, waaaing" about at the time. I still felt though, that I had a little bit of a chance with Cliff. At home he didn't always argue, and he was somewhat cooperative at times but his toes were on the edge of the world looking down into the ravine.
Dragging him with me into the police station, we were escorted into a detective's office and asked to wait a few minutes. About three minutes later a sergeant came in and asked how he could help me. I said, "I brought my son here because I just caught him in the park and he's been using something. He's skipping school, doesn't come home when he should and most of the time I can't tell you where he is." Silence for a full thirty seconds. Then the bomb dropped.
"What do you want me to do, lady?"
I want you to tear my heart out now and feed it to a bear. I want you to pull my fingernails out one by one and let me scream forever. I want you to put me out of my misery, please!
"Can't you put him in community service or something? Can't we do something??"
"Sorry, lady. If he hasn't been court ordered, we don't have any program or right to require him or force him to do anything."
Feeling so utterly frustrated that day, we went home. Cliff began to go further and further out, with less and less regard for me, for the rules of our house and most importantly less regard for his own life.
I lost him that day. Shortly after that encounter, we began our trip of being court ordered for many things that never seemed to really be enforced. The system tells you what you must do and what the repercussions will be but it seems that even those consequences are rarely backed up until you step over the line to the point of incarceration.
It's the criminal behavior that gets noticed and managed. Not the addiction. He's free to continue in his addiction as long as he does it without getting noticed.
Have we made any progress in treating this sickness??
Holding Back the Tears
Holding back the years
Chance for me to escape from all I’ve known
Holding back the tears
Cause nothing here has grown
I’ve wasted all my tears
Wasted all those years
And nothing had the chance to be good
Nothing ever could yeah
I’ll keep holding on
Simply Red
That pretty much sums up the last 20 plus years of my life. What was I holding on for? What was I connected to? I thought as long as I kept getting up and showing up every day, that I was making it. I couldn't see myself in the mirror as who I really was. Most days, I barely looked.
Knowing God was in my life, I felt like I was supposed to take on all the responsibility for everything in my life and everyone that I was connected to. Particularly my sons. I'm pretty sure that no one expected me to try and bear the burden alone; I just didn't know how to ask and didn't want to admit that I felt the struggle was so overwhelming that I was losing my grip. God never said that I was supposed to figure it out for myself and go it alone in this life.
Crying was out of the question. If I started to cry I was afraid I wouldn't stop. If I started to cry I was afraid I would begin to feel sorry for myself and that would get me nowhere. At times it feels as if I've wasted a lot of years. I'm on this train track, and the train is approaching so quickly but I'm frozen in the headlight.
I'll keep holding on.
Now, I'm holding on by holding hands, so to speak with my recovery group. I'm holding on by sharing my concerns and hurts and anguish with those that are in my trusted circle of confidants. I'm holding on by not holding onto secrets anymore.
Then God promises me:
"All those prayers are coming together now so you will do this well, fearless in your struggle, keeping a firm grip on your faith and on yourself. After all, this is a fight we're in." 1 Tim 1:19
Cliff and The Moderator
"Will you be coming to the hearing, Mom?" Such hope in his voice. "I won't get to see you because it's done over a video screen and I don't know if only the parole board can see me, but it helps if you have family there."
"Yes, I plan to be there. I was thinking of visiting you on Sunday but with the price of gas it will be the hearing." I hate being dictated down to the penny due to the economy and distance that's between us. But it is what it is.
"Yeah, please come to the hearing Mom and skip the visit. It starts at 8:00 here. And thanks, Mom, thanks a lot."
Meeting up with a Fella from my church and support group who is starting a ministry to inmates, we travel the distance to the prison where Cliff resides. Arriving much earlier than necessary we pass the time getting coffee at Tim Hortons. We yakkity yak all the way and more about Cliff. The Fella is planning to mentor Cliff while he's incarcerated and beyond. This means so much to me as Cliff hasn't really had a lot of stand-up men in his life. His father loves him but in my opinion and experience, is incapable of having a positive, uplifting relationship with anyone close to him.
Finally, 8:00 arrives. I check in at the desk and hand over my I.D. The officer says "okay..they'll begin around 8:30 or so and, by the way, only one of you is allowed in." Hmm....coulda swore Cliff said 8:00 and the more at your hearing the better, but that's the system we deal with. 8:30 rolls past, 8:45 waves as it goes by and finally around 9:00 am, the officer calls out, "If you're here for a parole hearing please step up to the desk." A flood of females, about 10 in all, and one elderly man come to the desk. "There's been a scheduling conflict so the hearings will be later today." In my mind I'm thinking about my work and how many others standing there are not at their jobs. The officer continues. "Come back at 10:30 and we'll be setting up then for the hearings." I calculate quickly where my car is and offer to The fella to drive me back there and I'll get my car and come back myself. He said no, we'll just come back.
Out we go and Fella's wife calls to see how the hearing went. I speak with her and tell her that for a quick minute, the redhead in me tried to rear it's unruly self, but the trusting God in me, threw it's hand across my mouth and put me back into "don't kill the messenger mode." Ahhh...so many were praying and I knew it right then!
Upon returning we sit and wait again and finally at 10:50 the hearings begin. I get called in about one hour later and go through the process of being patted down (with a quick apology by the female officer for having to fondle me so to speak), opening my mouth, showing the bottoms of my shoes and then removing them to show the bottoms of my feet. Finally I get my hand stamped and approved and am escorted to another holding area. "Walk ahead of me, m'am, and please take a seat at the second gray chair on the left." Sitting in my chair in the holding pattern area waiting my turn, I glance around at the walls and ceilings knowing that their must be cameras somewhere. Someone's watching me, I'm sure of it! The redhead, she keeps trying to get me in trouble, thinks about picking her nose or mooning someone, but again it's squelched by the angel on my shoulder.
The door to the hearing room opens, and out walks the woman that went in ahead of me, and her prisoner! My hopes are jumping with joy inside and shouting "you mean I get to see my son, face to face?!" The joys we can find in the moments of struggle. The next minute someone calls out to me "are you the representative for Cliff?" I answer that I am and around the corner comes Cliff with his escort! My eyes are quick to take in his appearance and notice immediately just how awesomely healthy he looks! He's sunkissed and tanned. His hair is trimmed nicely and he's grown a little goatee again. Looking dapper even in his prison attire we walk into the hearing room. I said, "I thought you were on video." "So did I!" he replied. We were both pleasantly surprised to find that the gentleman holding the hearing is on the video.
What seemed slow and methodical as I listened to the moderator interrogate my son was actually rather timely and quick. I listened carefully as Cliff replied to the questions and wondered if he'd answer them honestly. To the best of my understanding and recall of his life, he did. His questions to Cliff were the ones I've asked him myself. "Why should I believe you will manage and fulfill your parole better than your probation?" Cliff said, "I want out of this loop and to never be in a facility again. This is the most clean I've probably ever been in and out of jail. I am thinking clearly and I know this is not the life for me." The moderator replied that he was not so naive to not know that Cliff could get drugs while incarcerated. Not as many as on the street but they're in there and Cliff's remained drug free. Mr. Moderator sat back and asked me what I had to say. I made a statement and mentioned that one thing that was different than before is that I've learned through my meetings, to set some boundaries for myself and that my life will have a structure that will hopefully keep me from being manipulated and taken advantage of. I also mentioned that Fella has offered to mentor Cliff and Cliff has agreed to be mentored by Fella. The moderator was pleased to hear this and emphatically pointed out that statistics show what a difference a mentor can make for anyone with addiction issues. He concluded the hearing by saying that this information would be given to the parole board to review and Cliff will hear from the board with a decision in 5-6 weeks.
Quickly it's time to exit. Allowed to give Cliff a hug was a very special moment of course. He thanked me for coming and said he loved me~I've had permission to hug Cliff only three times this year. As I was escorted down the hall to exit, he called out "bye, Mom."
"Bye, honey!" I called back. Oops.
Just as if he were leaving home in real life for a real job as a viable, contributing citizen and just as if I'm a regular mom.
In my dreams this one comes true.
"Yes, I plan to be there. I was thinking of visiting you on Sunday but with the price of gas it will be the hearing." I hate being dictated down to the penny due to the economy and distance that's between us. But it is what it is.
"Yeah, please come to the hearing Mom and skip the visit. It starts at 8:00 here. And thanks, Mom, thanks a lot."
Meeting up with a Fella from my church and support group who is starting a ministry to inmates, we travel the distance to the prison where Cliff resides. Arriving much earlier than necessary we pass the time getting coffee at Tim Hortons. We yakkity yak all the way and more about Cliff. The Fella is planning to mentor Cliff while he's incarcerated and beyond. This means so much to me as Cliff hasn't really had a lot of stand-up men in his life. His father loves him but in my opinion and experience, is incapable of having a positive, uplifting relationship with anyone close to him.
Finally, 8:00 arrives. I check in at the desk and hand over my I.D. The officer says "okay..they'll begin around 8:30 or so and, by the way, only one of you is allowed in." Hmm....coulda swore Cliff said 8:00 and the more at your hearing the better, but that's the system we deal with. 8:30 rolls past, 8:45 waves as it goes by and finally around 9:00 am, the officer calls out, "If you're here for a parole hearing please step up to the desk." A flood of females, about 10 in all, and one elderly man come to the desk. "There's been a scheduling conflict so the hearings will be later today." In my mind I'm thinking about my work and how many others standing there are not at their jobs. The officer continues. "Come back at 10:30 and we'll be setting up then for the hearings." I calculate quickly where my car is and offer to The fella to drive me back there and I'll get my car and come back myself. He said no, we'll just come back.
Out we go and Fella's wife calls to see how the hearing went. I speak with her and tell her that for a quick minute, the redhead in me tried to rear it's unruly self, but the trusting God in me, threw it's hand across my mouth and put me back into "don't kill the messenger mode." Ahhh...so many were praying and I knew it right then!
Upon returning we sit and wait again and finally at 10:50 the hearings begin. I get called in about one hour later and go through the process of being patted down (with a quick apology by the female officer for having to fondle me so to speak), opening my mouth, showing the bottoms of my shoes and then removing them to show the bottoms of my feet. Finally I get my hand stamped and approved and am escorted to another holding area. "Walk ahead of me, m'am, and please take a seat at the second gray chair on the left." Sitting in my chair in the holding pattern area waiting my turn, I glance around at the walls and ceilings knowing that their must be cameras somewhere. Someone's watching me, I'm sure of it! The redhead, she keeps trying to get me in trouble, thinks about picking her nose or mooning someone, but again it's squelched by the angel on my shoulder.
The door to the hearing room opens, and out walks the woman that went in ahead of me, and her prisoner! My hopes are jumping with joy inside and shouting "you mean I get to see my son, face to face?!" The joys we can find in the moments of struggle. The next minute someone calls out to me "are you the representative for Cliff?" I answer that I am and around the corner comes Cliff with his escort! My eyes are quick to take in his appearance and notice immediately just how awesomely healthy he looks! He's sunkissed and tanned. His hair is trimmed nicely and he's grown a little goatee again. Looking dapper even in his prison attire we walk into the hearing room. I said, "I thought you were on video." "So did I!" he replied. We were both pleasantly surprised to find that the gentleman holding the hearing is on the video.
What seemed slow and methodical as I listened to the moderator interrogate my son was actually rather timely and quick. I listened carefully as Cliff replied to the questions and wondered if he'd answer them honestly. To the best of my understanding and recall of his life, he did. His questions to Cliff were the ones I've asked him myself. "Why should I believe you will manage and fulfill your parole better than your probation?" Cliff said, "I want out of this loop and to never be in a facility again. This is the most clean I've probably ever been in and out of jail. I am thinking clearly and I know this is not the life for me." The moderator replied that he was not so naive to not know that Cliff could get drugs while incarcerated. Not as many as on the street but they're in there and Cliff's remained drug free. Mr. Moderator sat back and asked me what I had to say. I made a statement and mentioned that one thing that was different than before is that I've learned through my meetings, to set some boundaries for myself and that my life will have a structure that will hopefully keep me from being manipulated and taken advantage of. I also mentioned that Fella has offered to mentor Cliff and Cliff has agreed to be mentored by Fella. The moderator was pleased to hear this and emphatically pointed out that statistics show what a difference a mentor can make for anyone with addiction issues. He concluded the hearing by saying that this information would be given to the parole board to review and Cliff will hear from the board with a decision in 5-6 weeks.
Quickly it's time to exit. Allowed to give Cliff a hug was a very special moment of course. He thanked me for coming and said he loved me~I've had permission to hug Cliff only three times this year. As I was escorted down the hall to exit, he called out "bye, Mom."
"Bye, honey!" I called back. Oops.
Just as if he were leaving home in real life for a real job as a viable, contributing citizen and just as if I'm a regular mom.
In my dreams this one comes true.
Flip-Flopped
Tomorrow Cliff has a parole hearing, his first since being sentenced. His earliest release date is sometime in November. He's rather new at this part and so am I. This is his first time in a state correctional facility as opposed to county. The other day I heard another mother say something along the lines of "how many letters did they get and how many classes they completed can determine if they get flopped."
Hmmmm.....the lingo is new to me, but I'm catching on. The procedures, though, I'm not. Why, oh why, in the system of corrections is it so hard to find out what you need to know? I'm sure the information is out there but if you've ever tried to reach anyone at a facility you know why I shudder. It's a nightmare and you need to not be at a desk 8 to 9 hours a day as an employee so you can be available to search and call and find out the answers to your questions and how the system works. I've never had the privilege nor the network. Maybe now, I'm getting that connection.
The flip side is, Cliff needs to be asking more questions where he is and not from the other incarcerees (I made that up!). The counselor he's assigned to at his facility seems to be there on a less than regular basis. He told me last night that he has a low average, which can play against him. He's violated probation so many times and had juvenile offenses that also come into play. However, he's a non-violent offender and with the over-crowding situation he may have his ticket punched to walk out. I'm really not anxious about this. I figure it's in God's hands and He knows how I feel about this. I'm just getting my health and well being back together and have such a long way to go to resolve so many of the effects financially that was compounded by loving a Cliff. I'm learning and setting more boundaries every day.
If Cliff is flopped for another year I may not be so sad, except that I hate to think this will become his way of life.
But if he's released and not prepared for this way of life, I'll flip! I really think I need more time, God willing.
I love him....but you know the rest....
Hmmmm.....the lingo is new to me, but I'm catching on. The procedures, though, I'm not. Why, oh why, in the system of corrections is it so hard to find out what you need to know? I'm sure the information is out there but if you've ever tried to reach anyone at a facility you know why I shudder. It's a nightmare and you need to not be at a desk 8 to 9 hours a day as an employee so you can be available to search and call and find out the answers to your questions and how the system works. I've never had the privilege nor the network. Maybe now, I'm getting that connection.
The flip side is, Cliff needs to be asking more questions where he is and not from the other incarcerees (I made that up!). The counselor he's assigned to at his facility seems to be there on a less than regular basis. He told me last night that he has a low average, which can play against him. He's violated probation so many times and had juvenile offenses that also come into play. However, he's a non-violent offender and with the over-crowding situation he may have his ticket punched to walk out. I'm really not anxious about this. I figure it's in God's hands and He knows how I feel about this. I'm just getting my health and well being back together and have such a long way to go to resolve so many of the effects financially that was compounded by loving a Cliff. I'm learning and setting more boundaries every day.
If Cliff is flopped for another year I may not be so sad, except that I hate to think this will become his way of life.
But if he's released and not prepared for this way of life, I'll flip! I really think I need more time, God willing.
I love him....but you know the rest....
Happy Birthday, Mom!
Today would be Mom's 78th birthday! My parents married at a young age on January 14th, 1950. Children followed rather quickly and Mom had to hold down the fort for the bulk of those years because Dad worked 2 jobs at a minimum, during most of their child raising years.
And no wonder! Amazing Mom had a total of 10 babies and 8 of them within 10 years! Mom had a gleam in her eye that was mesmerizing when she was happy or lovingly teasing someone but especially when she was sharing a happy moment with one of her children. I recall at the funeral home when Mom passed away, a friend of my parent's told me I had my mother's eyes. I loved that! She was an awesome, self-taught, seamstress making who knows how many shirts and dresses, and sometimes winter coats for her family. Not only that, for years she made countless recital costumes for aspiring dancers like me that took months to complete. I still see her late into the night, hunched over her machine, as a light shined down on her work and the only sound was the hum of the wheel whirring as she stitched.
And no wonder! Amazing Mom had a total of 10 babies and 8 of them within 10 years! Mom had a gleam in her eye that was mesmerizing when she was happy or lovingly teasing someone but especially when she was sharing a happy moment with one of her children. I recall at the funeral home when Mom passed away, a friend of my parent's told me I had my mother's eyes. I loved that! She was an awesome, self-taught, seamstress making who knows how many shirts and dresses, and sometimes winter coats for her family. Not only that, for years she made countless recital costumes for aspiring dancers like me that took months to complete. I still see her late into the night, hunched over her machine, as a light shined down on her work and the only sound was the hum of the wheel whirring as she stitched.
The flip side of Mom, in my observation, is that she carried an underyling sadness though she would never tell you so. I'm only beginning to recognize things I didn't understand. Coming from the generation of secrets, Mom didn't talk much of her childhood. Often one or two of her children sit down together and we discuss family things and marvel at how, for years, Mom was "mum" on most things that had to do with her childhood. And many times we never noticed because she was so busy with a house full of activity but becoming an adult slowly brought about a rite of passage to ask questions. Sometimes Mom just wouldn't go there. She was evasive. Then her story began to unfold, though I'm certain we only ever learned snippets; smidgeons of what her life was really like.
Over the last few years, dealing with my son Cliff, I've lamented in my mind that Mom didn't teach me some of the things I needed to know as an adult. We weren't skilled in the ways of running a home, keeping order and setting boundaries. Only recently my frustration with this issue has turned to sadness and compassion for Mom. You see, as you may have already guessed, Mom was raised by a terribly dysfunctional father who was a lifelong alcoholic. It sounds like he was an abusive one, at that. Mom had very few memories to share of Christmas with her family or any other happy moments. Constantly being farmed out and left in boarding schools didn't give her many treasures in her heart.
We didn't know that. For years Mom, like so many of us family members who don't get it, kept her life story under wraps. These things simply didn't get discussed. Not just by Mom either. It seems that whole generation approached life with a "pull yourself up and button your lip" attitude. My Dad would say it wasn't necessary to dwell on difficult things as it could lead to feeling sorry for yourself. Sometimes that is true and totally applicable. My parents were great about living in the present. But sometimes, when people are unable to function to their God-given ability that answer is an unacceptable lie. If you never address it, "it" never goes away. In moments of trials while raising us, Mom would often be a raging, crazy lady! At least that's what it seemed. Now I see that she didn't know how to handle all these children and was frustrated by what must have seemed overwhelming tasks and challenges. No one taught her and the only life she had was in the light of an insane lifestlye her parents lived.
Oh, but, Mom was a wonderful mother in so many ways! Our biggest cheerleader, always beaming with so much pride when there was some special moment in one of her little chicks lives. She loved my Dad with an unconditional love that exhibited itself over and over and NEVER talked poorly of her husband. My father was her hero; her knight in shining armor who moved her out of a lifestyle where her mother and sister suffered. Yet, the silent offender lurked within Mom's life and robbed her, I'm sure, of certain accomplishments, pleasures and fullfillments she was entitled to. I can't quite pull out all my thoughts yet, but I know I will continue down this path.
For today, I want to celebrate her life as she best knew how to be. She left a loving husband and a legacy of children who were devoted to her.
Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you so :)
I Want My Mommy!!
Do you ever feel that way? My beloved mom was set free from this earth nearly four years ago and not a day goes by that I don't think of her. I recall the exact moment and place I stood at my mother's funeral when my Uncle Jim said "you will think of your mother every day." So far, he's been right. She visits my dreams and smiles. I'm so glad because the last few years of her life were spent trapped in a body that refused to do what the brain instructed. So now I have only the memories I choose to cherish as my own. However one of the blessings of having eight siblings is that others have cherished memories of their own too and we get to share them between us. At times it's a "mommapalooza" of fun. Other times it's a melancholy moment of quiet. No matter which, there is always a longing to share something with Mom physically and personally that leaves me a bit saddened.
Missing Mom is sort of like being at the ocean where the waves rise and fall. The last twelve months have personally been fraught with emotional battles that would be off the stress charts if tallied. The waves roll and seem to gain volume and power with each approach. Beautiful as these waves appear they also spew remains of debris and smelly dead things on the smooth sand. Once the seas pull back, it seems you have just enough time to catch your breath for the next momentous crash. On and on it goes until the water has churned up all the poison that has been brewing and gurgling below, preventing that serene calm that draws us to the edge of the sand. During the rise and fall of these waves in my life, I've thought of Mom more than ever.
How fun it would have been for her to become a great-grandmother when Kenzie Rose was born! We would have been in the grandparent club together that growing older usually allows. I've had so many mental conversations with Mom about life's greatest joy and am a little saddened that Kenzie won't know her as my sons knew their great-grandmothers. I've also missed Mom simply for the cherished chats that Mothers and Daughters share. Our chats were soothing to my soul and I thought they would go on for years. How comforting it was for me when she would listen and sometimes not say much of anything about that particular situation yet knowing she pondered and held my concerns close to her heart. She was my harbor in the storm......
I want my mommy!!
Missing Mom is sort of like being at the ocean where the waves rise and fall. The last twelve months have personally been fraught with emotional battles that would be off the stress charts if tallied. The waves roll and seem to gain volume and power with each approach. Beautiful as these waves appear they also spew remains of debris and smelly dead things on the smooth sand. Once the seas pull back, it seems you have just enough time to catch your breath for the next momentous crash. On and on it goes until the water has churned up all the poison that has been brewing and gurgling below, preventing that serene calm that draws us to the edge of the sand. During the rise and fall of these waves in my life, I've thought of Mom more than ever.
How fun it would have been for her to become a great-grandmother when Kenzie Rose was born! We would have been in the grandparent club together that growing older usually allows. I've had so many mental conversations with Mom about life's greatest joy and am a little saddened that Kenzie won't know her as my sons knew their great-grandmothers. I've also missed Mom simply for the cherished chats that Mothers and Daughters share. Our chats were soothing to my soul and I thought they would go on for years. How comforting it was for me when she would listen and sometimes not say much of anything about that particular situation yet knowing she pondered and held my concerns close to her heart. She was my harbor in the storm......
I want my mommy!!
(Tomorrow would be Mom's earthly birthday. I can hardly believe five years have gone by since she bid adieu. I borrowed this post from my other blog because it fits. The sickness of silence kept me from sharing Cliff's problems with anyone, especially Mom when she was in her illness. Now that I'm in recovery I miss her more than ever. I know she'd share my heart and my hurt. More of Mom tomorrow)
A Lullaby
"I SEE THE MOON"
The clock strikes 9:00 pm, 10:00 pm, 11:00 pm and I'm at the window looking up the street and down the street in hopes of seeing a glimpse of Cliff. Some sign that he was coming home tonight. Tick, tick, tick...
"THE MOON SEES ME"
Convinced that among the stars angels are watching me pace the floor, angry one minute and anxious the next. Where oh where, can he be? Eyeing the time, I try to sleep, knowing I have to be up and out for work in the morning. Spewing angry thoughts into mid-air that no one would hear but me, trying so hard to leave it with God yet snatching it back just as quickly. Somehow gazing at the moon seems to conjure up the only prayers I could utter.
"THE MOON SEES SOMEBODY I'D LIKE TO SEE"
"Please, please let him be okay," I pray. "I just can't take another day of this!" I know Cliff's out there somewhere but where?? I know you see him, Mr. Moon. Please direct him home so I can be only angry and not worried. I can't take these conflicting emotions running rampant through my body!
"GOD MADE THE MOON"
Grasping for a moment of God's peace, I grab my bible.
"In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth." Genesis 1:1
"AND GOD MADE ME"
"Then God said, "Let us make man in our image, in our likeness" Genesis 1:26a
"AND GOD MADE THE SOMEBODY I'D LIKE TO SEE"
I see someone out there. I squint my eyes hard to make sure they're not playing tricks on me. My jaw is locked so intensely I feel my teeth weakening. It's Cliff! Walking up the walkway in the shadow of the trees, my man-boy is coming in with the most amazing story of bad luck you can imagine. I'm really irritated that he's okay while I'm in knots and yet grateful to know that he's not laying dead somewhere as somebody's unknown. A conundrum to be sure.
God keep me from hurting him, I shout in my mind! I'm angrier than ever now that he drifts into endless sleep while I can barely keep my eyes closed due to the rage running through my veins.
God Help Me.
The clock strikes 9:00 pm, 10:00 pm, 11:00 pm and I'm at the window looking up the street and down the street in hopes of seeing a glimpse of Cliff. Some sign that he was coming home tonight. Tick, tick, tick...
"THE MOON SEES ME"
Convinced that among the stars angels are watching me pace the floor, angry one minute and anxious the next. Where oh where, can he be? Eyeing the time, I try to sleep, knowing I have to be up and out for work in the morning. Spewing angry thoughts into mid-air that no one would hear but me, trying so hard to leave it with God yet snatching it back just as quickly. Somehow gazing at the moon seems to conjure up the only prayers I could utter.
"THE MOON SEES SOMEBODY I'D LIKE TO SEE"
"Please, please let him be okay," I pray. "I just can't take another day of this!" I know Cliff's out there somewhere but where?? I know you see him, Mr. Moon. Please direct him home so I can be only angry and not worried. I can't take these conflicting emotions running rampant through my body!
"GOD MADE THE MOON"
Grasping for a moment of God's peace, I grab my bible.
"In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth." Genesis 1:1
"AND GOD MADE ME"
"Then God said, "Let us make man in our image, in our likeness" Genesis 1:26a
"AND GOD MADE THE SOMEBODY I'D LIKE TO SEE"
I see someone out there. I squint my eyes hard to make sure they're not playing tricks on me. My jaw is locked so intensely I feel my teeth weakening. It's Cliff! Walking up the walkway in the shadow of the trees, my man-boy is coming in with the most amazing story of bad luck you can imagine. I'm really irritated that he's okay while I'm in knots and yet grateful to know that he's not laying dead somewhere as somebody's unknown. A conundrum to be sure.
God keep me from hurting him, I shout in my mind! I'm angrier than ever now that he drifts into endless sleep while I can barely keep my eyes closed due to the rage running through my veins.
God Help Me.
Flashbacks.....
The pictures go through my mind and smack me with reality. For 14 years, Cliff has taken me on the ride of my life. I've gone along unwillingly, unknowingly, kicking and screaming for a good portion of the ride. I must have had my hand stamped that allowed me to ride this ride as many times as I wanted. Just when my stomach would gather itself back together and my head would quit spinning, the regurgitation would start all over again.
Cliff became more bold or more addicted; enough to begin to leave trails and residue behind that took my breath away each time I found something questionable. I questioned myself repeatedly about what I was seeing if it was something other than needles. After all, I was a "Pollyanna" and in my naivete lifestyle I just wasn't sure at times what it was or how it might be used. I didn't have anyone to ask because I didn't know anyone who'd been a user, lived with a user or loved a user.
The years go by....he drifts in and out of my life and my thoughts. He's lived with me and he's lived in rescue missions. I teasingly told him, during one of his better clean times, that he could write a book about the shelters in the Detroit area. We laughed as we discussed how he could give the "highs and lows" of each residence, scoring them according to the best mattresses and food. We called it "A Visitor's Guide to Detroit's Shelter's and Missions." Funny, but in a sick sort of way. You look for reasons to share laughter and have moments of closeness no matter how sick it may seem. We don't have memories to discuss of wonderful years in high school and his winning touchdown. We have only a few moments of trips taken that were untainted by our ghostly family member, the needle.
Years later, the visions of him lying in a heap by the house....totally out of it. A junkie at my door in a suburban neighborhood. Worrying about the appearance to the world and scared to death about the life of my son. Another year near my birthday, seeing him lying in a hospital bed following an overdose. Feeling so surreal, listening to the beeps of the monitors while Cliff is hooked up to needles of another sort to sustain his life. Still scared to death about the life of my son. Years of walking around with my heart in my throat...waiting, waiting and expecting the phone call to say that Cliff was gone.
No matter how old he is, no matter how many people tell me "he's an adult now", the ties that bind are thicker than any other relationship I've ever had. He is my flesh and blood. I'll never give up thinking he'll make it. I'll never stop praying for a spiritual intervention that takes hold forever. I'll never forget the images that are planted in my memory that won't let go of nearly every phone number I've ever had.
The mind...it's a terrible thing to waste.
Cliff became more bold or more addicted; enough to begin to leave trails and residue behind that took my breath away each time I found something questionable. I questioned myself repeatedly about what I was seeing if it was something other than needles. After all, I was a "Pollyanna" and in my naivete lifestyle I just wasn't sure at times what it was or how it might be used. I didn't have anyone to ask because I didn't know anyone who'd been a user, lived with a user or loved a user.
The years go by....he drifts in and out of my life and my thoughts. He's lived with me and he's lived in rescue missions. I teasingly told him, during one of his better clean times, that he could write a book about the shelters in the Detroit area. We laughed as we discussed how he could give the "highs and lows" of each residence, scoring them according to the best mattresses and food. We called it "A Visitor's Guide to Detroit's Shelter's and Missions." Funny, but in a sick sort of way. You look for reasons to share laughter and have moments of closeness no matter how sick it may seem. We don't have memories to discuss of wonderful years in high school and his winning touchdown. We have only a few moments of trips taken that were untainted by our ghostly family member, the needle.
Years later, the visions of him lying in a heap by the house....totally out of it. A junkie at my door in a suburban neighborhood. Worrying about the appearance to the world and scared to death about the life of my son. Another year near my birthday, seeing him lying in a hospital bed following an overdose. Feeling so surreal, listening to the beeps of the monitors while Cliff is hooked up to needles of another sort to sustain his life. Still scared to death about the life of my son. Years of walking around with my heart in my throat...waiting, waiting and expecting the phone call to say that Cliff was gone.
No matter how old he is, no matter how many people tell me "he's an adult now", the ties that bind are thicker than any other relationship I've ever had. He is my flesh and blood. I'll never give up thinking he'll make it. I'll never stop praying for a spiritual intervention that takes hold forever. I'll never forget the images that are planted in my memory that won't let go of nearly every phone number I've ever had.
The mind...it's a terrible thing to waste.
What Did They Name Him?
For months expectant parents talk and plan and dream and wonder what the future will hold for their bundle of joy. They imagine him taking his first step, grinning with his first tooth and uttering those first words that will bring them endless joy. The "E.P.'s" write out name after name trying to settle on just the right one that will take their offspring through life with success. They say the names out loud and let them roll off their tongues to make sure it rings in such a way that when heard it will not be easily forgotten. Countless conversations ensue with excited relatives weighing out their opinions and suggestions and sometimes rolling their eyes at the sound of a name they would never choose for their perfect little loved one. The E.P's see the names as they will be written in school, on a diploma or perhaps as an author.
One thing I know.
The E.P's never asked themselves, "how will this name look on a police report? What will it sound like when they call his name in the courtroom? I wonder how it will look in print on an offenders list?"
I cannot explain the pain for this one. I have never become accustomed to this part of Cliff's life. Some people are born into the system. It seems to be a family trait to have more than one member of the family in jail. Hordes of family members come week after week to visit their parent, or spouse, offspring or sibling. Little children put on their Sunday best to make the most of the time they will have to visit the one they love.
I feel stumped by the system I've been forced to come to know and pray for the change in Cliff's life to sever this cycle which has slowly become a part of my life. I'm not a "regular" to be sure, and having to ever go to a jail or prison once is to much for me.
I weep in my own quiet moments. Sometimes I weep for me, sometimes I weep for Cliff. I always weep for the children. I weep for the fact that when Cliff was born he was given a fine name of which he could be proud.
Now I wonder, what's in a name?
One thing I know.
The E.P's never asked themselves, "how will this name look on a police report? What will it sound like when they call his name in the courtroom? I wonder how it will look in print on an offenders list?"
I cannot explain the pain for this one. I have never become accustomed to this part of Cliff's life. Some people are born into the system. It seems to be a family trait to have more than one member of the family in jail. Hordes of family members come week after week to visit their parent, or spouse, offspring or sibling. Little children put on their Sunday best to make the most of the time they will have to visit the one they love.
I feel stumped by the system I've been forced to come to know and pray for the change in Cliff's life to sever this cycle which has slowly become a part of my life. I'm not a "regular" to be sure, and having to ever go to a jail or prison once is to much for me.
I weep in my own quiet moments. Sometimes I weep for me, sometimes I weep for Cliff. I always weep for the children. I weep for the fact that when Cliff was born he was given a fine name of which he could be proud.
Now I wonder, what's in a name?
Hester Prynne and Me
I feel as though I should be wearing a big "E" on my chest just as Hester Prynne, wore in The Scarlet Letter. Let the world know that I'm the one who let my son become an addict. I'm the one who loved him so much that he stayed in his vomituous lifestyle. Now, due to a mother's love, he's in prison. I know this thinking is just a lie, but that's how it feels.
I also know that I did what I best knew how to do and whether I chose to do "A" or "B" in my life, chances are Cliff's life would be no different than it is today. Addiction does not show partiality. It loves the rich and the poor, the brainiacs and the ignorant all the same. In the world of addiction, at least from my exposure and perspective, race is a non-issue for users and dealers alike. If you have the money, they've got the stuff and you can drop and use right where you are.
Nevertheless, as I grow in my understanding of this epidemic and my knowledge of setting boundaries for myself, I continuously feel that fingers are pointing at me.
Is this true or my own neurosis?
I also know that I did what I best knew how to do and whether I chose to do "A" or "B" in my life, chances are Cliff's life would be no different than it is today. Addiction does not show partiality. It loves the rich and the poor, the brainiacs and the ignorant all the same. In the world of addiction, at least from my exposure and perspective, race is a non-issue for users and dealers alike. If you have the money, they've got the stuff and you can drop and use right where you are.
Nevertheless, as I grow in my understanding of this epidemic and my knowledge of setting boundaries for myself, I continuously feel that fingers are pointing at me.
Is this true or my own neurosis?
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