What a strange world we live in.
“I know you are about to eat dinner,” Linda says. “But I wanted to tell you that I have been thinking about you for the past two days since we talked, and I think you are such a brave woman. You are helping Ben face his problems. You are not enabling him. All the different ways that you could have handled it, but you did it this way, and it is the right way. You have great courage.”
I say, “Thank you.” I tell her I am writing down what she says because my brain doesn’t work anymore. I am brain dead. I have to write everything down. So I write her words on pink sticky notes with a blue marker, and I save the notes for later, knowing I will need them.
I am awed by the kindness of this woman, my friend, who could so easily forget about me because I am just one more face, one more person she sees in the salon. But she thinks about me, and then she picks up the phone to comfort and console me. She calls me brave. She believes I am doing the right thing. She doesn’t try to fix me, tell me what to do, or offer advice about how to take care of myself. Gratitude fills my heart.
An epiphany: This is what Ben wants, too—not guidance or instruction, but presence. He wants me to listen. He yearns to be heard.
I think, then, about the receptionist at the dentist’s office who was rude and cold toward me, for no reason that I could figure out. I learned later that she was recently divorced, had an autistic child, and had no medical insurance. What was going on for her had absolutely nothing to do with me.
Another epiphany—Ben’s fear and anger are about his pain, not my failures. Hold that thought tight, Kathy, I tell myself. Hold it close.
Wednesday, December 14
I call Ben D. at 7:30 this morning, 8:30 Montana time.
“Ben talked about the death of his friend John yesterday and said, ‘I think it’s relatively insignificant in the grand scheme of things if I use drugs every once in a while.’ We talked a lot about his hopelessness. He doesn’t see the program doing much for him. ‘I don’t know if I want to give pot a break,’ he said. ‘It gives me more creativity, affects my perception, and I like that.’
“We did Ben’s peer evaluation. His peers talked about Ben’s anger and how shame-related stuff and low self-esteem feed into substance use. Later he told me he’s not ready to surrender. ‘The world is such a nasty place,’ he said. ‘When I’m sober, I feel so pessimistic about the nature of human beings. I’m not happy.’”
Ernie and I wrote about surrender in The Spirituality of Imperfection. I look up the section:
Perhaps the greatest paradox in the story of spirituality is the mystical insight that we are able to experience release only if we ourselves let go. This is the paradox of surrender. Surrender begins with the acceptance that we are not in control of the matter at hand—in fact, we are not in absolute control of anything.
Friday, December 16
Ben D. calls to tell me that Ben has had one of his best days ever and “a new, open mind-set.” He says he’s giving up the fight against his disease, he’s exhausted, and he needs help.
The results of a psychological test Ben took show that he has considerable anxiety and depression, impulsivity, and some problems with keeping disturbing thoughts out of his mind. His behavior appears to be quite impulsive, which is made worse by substances. The test shows a high likelihood of chemical dependency.
“When I went over the test results with him, Ben said they were ‘dead on,’ and he couldn’t believe a test could tell that much about him,” Ben D. says. “He said one reason he thinks he was using chemicals is because they gave him a break, some relief. I asked him when these feelings about needing relief came about. ‘When John died,’ he said. He keeps bringing up John. He’s doing a lot of grief work. And he’s doing shame versus guilt stuff. We talked a lot about the shame he feels related to his using and using behaviors and the shame related to ongoing unmanageability and how all these things perpetuate the shame cycle.
“Sooner or later, he’ll have to break that cycle,” Ben D. says with a sigh. “Whether he can do that on his own remains to be seen. I think there are good signs that he’s ready to engage in treatment, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he has another one of his episodes again soon. He’s had a couple days of clarity and remorse, a few good days, but the pattern seems to be that he will then do something that causes him to feel more shame, and he’ll have difficulty dealing with that shame.
“We’ll hope for the best and adjust for the worst. He’s a good kid. A nice young man.”
I take those words to heart—he’s a good kid, a nice young man—but I adjust for the worst.
Monday, December 19
Three days later. “Ben had his weekly assessment and received the lowest rating—unacceptable and not making any progress,” Ben D. says. “He is belligerent, immature, and at times threatening. Today in group, his peers focused on him for much of the time. He was contradictory, defensive, and angry. He ended up leaving group.”
I hear the weariness in Ben D.’s voice. “Two weeks into the program and there has been no substantive change,” he says. “Usually we can get kids engaged by now.”
“What is it that makes him so resistant to treatment?” I ask. “I wonder if he might be afraid that he will fail, and so he makes that prediction come true?”
“I think you are exactly right,” Ben D. chuckles softly. “Recently, Ben said something like, ‘If I work hard and fail, where will I be? What’s the point?’ Then he shifted back to ‘I don’t have a problem.’”
I remember talking to Robyn after one of her high school soccer games, when she seemed to be holding back, not giving one hundred percent. “Mom,” she admitted finally, “if I give it everything I have and it’s not good enough, what do I have left to give?”
Thursday, December 22
“Be prepared,” Ben D. says. “I talked to Ben about his phone call home on Christmas day, and he told me he’s not going to call you.”
I take a deep breath and sigh, a ragged, moaning sound.
“I just want you to be prepared,” he says. “We had a couple good days, then the level of defiance started to escalate again. I think it’s still kind of iffy about what he’ll do over the next few days. We often see depression that comes out in anger around Christmas. That might be some of it, with Christmas this weekend. But we have to stop this repetitive pattern of feeling remorse, flying off the handle, then feeling more guilt, shame, and remorse. We’ll work on that.
“I do want to tell you about something he said in group today, because I think it’s significant: ‘It’s tough for me to give up the fight, because it’s like everyone else has won, it’s like my parents have won, and that makes me mad.’
“So now, he gets to be mad at you and not call you.”
Christmas Day
I wake up at 5:00 a.m. It’s pitch black outside, overcast, and when I step outside for a moment, it feels like rain. I look up the weather in Kalispell, Montana. Light freezing fog and twenty-nine degrees. I turn on the Christmas tree lights, sit on the sofa, and write Ben a letter.
Dear Ben,
We love you more than we can begin to put in words. We miss you more than we can say. You are woven through our lives so that not an hour goes by in which we do not think about you. It comforts us to know that you are in a place where people understand addiction and know what to do to help you get well. But if you refuse to meet them halfway, if you decide to continue to keep using and put your very life in jeopardy, we cannot be part of that decision. Whatever you decide will not change our love for you—we will love you always and forever with a depth and passion that you will not be able to understand until you have children yourself.
You have so much waiting for you in the sober world, Ben—college, a career, children, laughter, the full spectrum of human emotion, energy, motivation, excitement about the world and your place in it, and most important of all, a love of your own self. It’s all there. And there’s the other side, too, which y
ou have come to know—the sadness, the shame, the fear, the physical injuries, the emotional devastation, the destruction of your relationships, the sickness inside, the anger, the fury, the lashing out, the mean words you speak to people you love, the very disintegration of the self.
What will you choose?
I finish the letter, reading it over and over in the dawning light, and find myself wondering: How many times can you repeat the word love without emptying it of meaning?
Just before dinner, Ben calls. He spends most of his time talking to Robyn and Alison. We tell him we love him. He says he loves us.
Tuesday, December 27
“Yesterday was better for Ben,” Ben. D says. “He’s at a point where he’s much more willing to be open-minded and look at himself, look at his issues.
“The biggest thing I’m encouraged by is that before the past couple days, he’d been opposed to looking at the spiritual nature of the Twelve Steps because God killed his best friend. ‘Why would I want to believe in something like that?’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to believe that a higher power would allow something like that to happen.’
“Then he said, ‘Something has been missing in my life. If you’re telling me it’s spirituality and the Twelve Steps that will fill the hole that drugs filled for such a long time, then I’m willing to look at it.’ He talked about being bullied in elementary and middle school and feeling a general distrust toward people, which in his mind leads to defiance and distrust.
“He’s a very insightful young man,” Ben D. says. “He’s starting to feel better about himself, but there’s a long way to go with his self-esteem. And he continues to believe he can solve his own problems.”
We talk a bit longer, and I thank him for everything he has done for Ben.
“I don’t know where we would be now without you,” I say.
Just before we say goodbye, he says, “The miracle hasn’t happened yet.”
I hear the smile in his voice and interpret it as a promise of sorts. Somehow, somewhere, someday, the miracle will happen.
11
knees to knees
January 1–January 6, 2006
The word miracle calls forth a memory from the distant past. When I was in the early stages of writing my first book, back in 1978, I sat in a roomful of patients and their family members at an inpatient treatment center in Kirkland, Washington. My pen was skidding across the paper as I tried to keep up with the man speaking at the lectern, James R. Milam, PhD. His deep, powerful voice resonated through the room. Everyone present, including most of the patients in hospital gowns, sat unmoving, mesmerized by his folksy stories and passionate delivery of the facts about addiction.
After that first visit, I attended half a dozen more lectures on various subjects, ranging from neurochemistry to nutrition. In every talk, no matter the subject, Milam used a reassuring metaphor to explain the metamorphosis that takes place in the process of recovery from addiction. “We have to wait for the physiological change to occur. You can’t rush it; it will happen in its own time,” Milam explained in his booming voice. “Imagine trying to teach a caterpillar how to fly. The poor thing might listen, take flight lessons, watch butterflies darting around. But no matter how hard it tries, it won’t fly. Maybe we get frustrated because we know this little guy has it in him to become a butterfly. So we give him books to read, try to counsel him, scold him, punish him, threaten him, maybe even toss him up in the air and watch him flap his little legs before crashing back to earth.”
Everyone laughed; even the sickest patients lifted their heads a little higher. “The miracle takes time,” Milam said in a softer tone of voice. “We must be patient. But just as it is natural and normal for caterpillars to become butterflies, so can we expect addicted individuals, given the appropriate care and compassion, to be transformed in the recovery process. The metamorphosis is nothing short of miraculous, as people who are desperately sick are restored to health and a ‘normal’ state of being.”
“So, don’t sit around feeling sorry for yourself,” Milam admonished, raising his voice again. “Be grateful that you have a disease from which you can make a full recovery.”
I remember watching the family members from my seat in the back row—the middle-aged woman sitting alone, dabbing at her eyes with a cloth handkerchief; the businessman with his briefcase, who kept looking at his watch; the grandfatherly man, sitting straight and tall, statue-like, eyes riveted on the lectern; the couple whose heads were bowed, shoulders shaking. I wondered what they were seeing, thinking, feeling. Just twenty-nine years old, I didn’t have enough experience with suffering and loss to even begin to imagine what they were going through. I couldn’t have known—I never would have dreamed—that one day I would be sitting in such a room, not as an observer but as a participant. That I would be one of them.
We wish to welcome you to the Wilderness Treatment Center’s Family Week Program.
You probably have heard it said that chemical dependency is a family disease and that the family and concerned persons become affected by the disease. There is no doubt that the person who is emotionally involved with a chemically dependent person will become affected, in one way or another, to one degree or another.
I like the way the introduction to the packet of information about Family Week is phrased. No talk about “enabling” or “codependence”—terms that sound so negative and judgmental to my ears. It’s just a straightforward acknowledgment that when the demon of addiction enters our homes, the entire family system is turned upside down and inside out. We are “affected,” and we need help, no doubt about that. I smile to myself, wondering if the treatment center might consider adding another line or two to this introduction: “We also understand that you will be genuinely terrified, to one degree or another, by the idea of exposing your emotions, thoughts, and behaviors to a group of strangers. Hang in there—you’re not alone.”
Pat and I look at the five-day schedule. Every morning, 8:45 a.m. check-in is followed by Al-Anon, lectures (“Disease Concept,” “Step One,” “Family Systems/Roles,” “Spirituality,” “Continuing Care”), a break for lunch, then videos and groups. The third day’s group is replaced by “Knees to Knees.” (“That doesn’t sound good,” Pat grumbles.) “Individual Family Conferences” take place on the fourth day, after the lecture. On the fifth and final day, the “Challenge Course” is followed by lunch and 1:00 p.m. departure.
Robyn flies up from San Diego, and Ali takes a bus from Missoula. We rent a house a few miles from the treatment center, because it’s more comfortable than crowding four of us into a motel room in Kalispell, which is twenty-two miles away. We gather our courage Saturday night, New Year’s Eve. The girls and I share a bottle of champagne. Pat told me later that it was a rough evening for him. He hadn’t had a drink in twenty-two years, but champagne used to be our way of celebrating events, big and small. Just the popping of the plastic cork brought him back to those days and a craving he hadn’t experienced in a long, long time. That was the first and only time I’ve heard him express a desire to drink again.
I knew we were breaking the treatment center’s list of “expectations,” specifically #3: “Please refrain from the use of mood-altering chemicals while you are participating in family week.” I felt guilty for drinking in front of Pat and shame for being the kind of person who knew that wasn’t the right thing to do but did it anyway. I can’t lie, though—I enjoyed that glass of champagne. Maybe I even needed it that night. Liquid courage.
My stomach twists and my heartstrings tighten as I write these words so many years later, knowing what Ben was going through and thoughtlessly ignoring what Pat must have been experiencing as he watched his wife and two daughters toasting the New Year. Not a proud moment, then or now.
“Yeah!” I whisper to Pat when Ben D. introduces himself as our group leader. I’m surprised how young he is—possibly in his late twenties or early thirties. I think he looks a lot like our Ben. Or maybe I’m just hoping th
at our Ben will look like him in ten years—handsome and broad shouldered with a wide-open smile and a cheerful, confident manner.
“We have a small group,” Ben D. says, “because many people wait until after the holidays to send their kids to treatment.” The look on his face tells us that waiting isn’t always a good idea, but it occurs to me that perhaps the people sitting in this circle are the truly desperate ones. Tim, Susan, and their son Taylor are here for Taylor’s older brother, Bryan. Linda is here for Kevin. Steve for Mike. And Pat, Kathy, Robyn, and Alison for Ben.
Bryan, Kevin, Mike, Ben. The boys join us for only an hour or two each day, which is a relief to be honest. We are all excited to see them, but we’re nervous, too, because we don’t know what to expect—angry outbursts, long tirades, sullen silences or loving embraces, words of gratitude, a sense of newfound self-respect. I hope for the love and gratitude, but given the long conversations with Ben D. about Ben’s progress, I expect anger and resentment. I remember what William James wrote about how happiness can be quantified as the ratio between reality and expectations—the higher our expectations, the smaller our satisfaction. Or as Pat put it in group a few days later, quoting a Calvin and Hobbes comic, the secret “is to lower your expectations to the point where they’re already met.” I thought Steve would fall out of his chair laughing.
The first morning, with no boys present, we go around the circle and introduce ourselves. Tim, white haired and blue eyed, is first. “My son Bryan,” he begins, as his chin drops to his chest. Susan takes his hand. “My son Bryan,” he starts again, “is a heroin addict.” He is crying hard now. “I’m sorry,” he says, wiping at his tears with the back of his hand. “I’m so sorry.”
The Only Life I Could Save Page 16
