I remember the day I found out I was pregnant with you. I was told I wouldn’t be able to have children.
I was excited and in shock.
I carried you for 9 months. I felt your first movement of life.
And when you were born, it was the happiest day of my life.
Born with you, were all my hopes and dreams for your future.
You were such an easy baby. A happy child. Your smart, funny, persistant. You were always such a joy to be around. There wasn’t a person that didn’t like you or that could say anything bad about you.
You were voted by your classmates as most likely to become famous, and also the class clown.
You taught yourself to play guitar and you were so good at it.
And I miss hearing you play.
I miss a lot of things about you.
Your laugh, your jokes. The times we sit around the dinner table talking and discussing everything.
I miss your beautiful smile.
Things I haven’t seen in awhile.
I never asked to be an addict’s mother. It is a role that nobody could ever be prepared for. There isn’t a book titled “What to Expect when you’re an addict’s mother.”
The hardest thing I have ever had to do is to sit on the sideline and watch you deteriorate back into an empty shell time and time again, knowing I am helpless to help you.
Nothing reaches you. And its sad and scary at the same time.
From the first time you used a drug, you disappeared and the past seven years, we all have been living in a dark abyss.
This life you are leading… is NOT you.
I know this because of the sober times you have had, sometimes months at a time. This just makes it harder on everyone when you continuously return to drugs.
You don’t relapse.
You dive right off a cliff.
Each time, worse than the last, deeper in the water and harder to reach.
The past 2 months you have had 3 hospitalizations all due to drug use and robbed at gunpoint.
When will you hit the bottom? Do you even have one?
A month ago, we sat and talked, while you were sober in the hospital. You held my hand ever so tight as tears ran down your face.
I know you don’t want to be like this. I know you are struggling. I can see and feel your pain.
Please hit the bottom soon because I am not prepared to be an Angel mom or a prison mom.
As I told you when you held my hand, you are not in this alone.
As long as you are still breathing, there is hope.
It’s time to make the choice to change.
I will always love you more than you ever know.