A mother's recovery

(This story is adapted from an excerpt of a short story of the same name, originally published in True Stories, Volume III)

I came to my own recovery sideways and unaware. I was simply following my son, as I always had; hovering behind him, ready to catch him when he fell. Toddler or teen, Tristan was pure energy and adrenaline, running full tilt at life. Until he smacked into a wall. As a teen, that wall was addiction and, despite my hovering, Tristan had fallen hard.

Six years later, here I was: At my first Parent’s Support Group meeting at his first rehab centre. With two minutes to spare, I walked into the multi-purpose room and sat in the first chair I saw. I smiled at whoever looked my way, to be friendly, then avoided further contact by pretending I had urgent messages on my phone.

But the people I had glimpsed surprised me. They were mostly women, mostly middle-aged; in that regard, like me. But these women had bright eyes, breezy scarves, broad smiles. They were laughing. They didn’t seem like mothers of addicts, to me. They didn’t seem like me, at all.

I listened as the facilitator told a story of his own addiction, of being a punk teenager with a chip on his shoulder. Until his parents locked him out of the house with nothing but his favourite Snoopy blanket. That’s when he decided to get help. Twenty-six years ago. I listened to moms talk about their son’s celebrating sobriety, moving out of rehab with roommates, buying cars, paying off debts. I began to relax. To feel the smallest kernel of hope. Perhaps, one day, Tristan could move out on his own and by a beater car too. And then a woman mentioned she’d just got back from a few days of radical self care, focusing on her own health and well-being, even though her son had recently relapsed.

Relapsed.

That word screamed through my bones and I couldn’t hear what came next. I wasn’t stupid, I knew about relapse; that relapse was possible, some even say probable, until a person hits their mystical rock bottom and recovery sticks. If that ever happens. Which it doesn’t always.

Tears blurred my vision and I started to panic. Jesus Fucking Christ, I thought, Tristan can’t relapse! I would rather die than live through his addiction again.

Those thoughts didn’t feel dramatic to me. They weren’t an overreaction or exaggeration; they came from a place of deep, deep exhaustion. My faith in recovery waivered as this woman talked about joy and gratitude, about hiking and spending time with her husband. Despite everything. Despite relapse.

I didn’t recognize what I was seeing then: a mother’s recovery. At that time, recovery wasn’t a concept I applied to parents. Recovery was for our kids, and a kid in relapse was worth screaming about, and grieving, and shrieking, and tearing yourself apart. How could this woman enjoy herself when she should have been chasing her son down and tying him up if she had to. And if that didn’t work, at least she could have the decency to be in deep despair.

After that first night, I wasn’t sure I’d get anything of value from Parent’s Group. I didn’t understand, then, that family recovery meant helping each family member to heal themselves, not each other. And I certainly didn’t know that six month’s later, after learning to value myself, I’d walk into that room, wearing a broad smile and breezy scarf, laughing with friends, to share my story of gratitude for the joy filled weekend I’d just spent with my granddaughter.

Despite my son’s recent relapse.