Oh, Wait...

It is a cool morning. I can smell the earth and feel the cool breeze from an open window. All of my senses are aligned and taking in the smells of damp soil, the feel of the cool sheets, the sunshine streaking across the room, and the sounds of the daytime. It is a day to stretch out like a cat, roll over and go back to sleep. Actually, it is the perfect day to do that, laying there listening to the rest of the world getting started. Rather than enjoy these sweet sensations, or for that matter, even appreciate them for a few seconds, the days activities creep into my head and I am up. I have stuff to do, so, “Up and at ‘em”. Clearly, I am of the belief that if I get up early enough, work hard enough, and am relatively intelligent, I will succeed.

Today we are headed to the farm to pick the perfect pumpkin. The girls are far too old for this activity, they are 15 and 17, but I insist, and they comply. That is how we live since their dad passed away two years ago. I dictate and they obey. I think this is our coping mechanism, and I also think it is working fine.

The place we have always gone is a family owned working farm. A “pick-your-own” place which also has tractor pulled wagons to take you out to the fields. The vegetables and fruit are kept in an open area on a slab of cement, with only a ceiling. There are no walls, although over the years, someone has added roll down plastic sheet, in case of rain. It has been owned by the same family for at least three generations, I am told. Relics of past farmer things are mixed with the displays of produce. It is a rustic, quaint place.

The tractor pulls up and we climb onto the wagon it is pulling. There are mostly young kids with their mothers, but I don’t care, although the girls are rolling their eyes at each other. I would if I were them. In a minute or two we are there. We are told the tractor will return soon for the ride back or you can walk. Before us are rows and rows of vines with pumpkins of various sizes, shapes and colors. It is really quite a sight. Perhaps, more so for me, as I am a city girl and am always amazed at farms. The reality of them. I have only know produce from grocery stores, or a huckster ( a guy with a truck full of produce who rides around the city selling fresh produce ) The later only happening in the summer months. The pumpkins are decided in short order and we begin to walk back to the stand to purchase them.

Once home, I want to mess with the pumpkins, but the girls are gone. To their rooms and to their phones. I can’t help but feel disappointed somehow. I suppose my identity as their mom is coming to an end, or at least, that is the way I see it. This makes me sad, but I consider myself lucky, I have tons of stuff to do around the house, and I get busy. I have often wondered if I am a bit manic or ADD, I am distracted so very easily, and I push myself at unbelievable speed to accomplish these tasks. The “To Do” list is ongoing, and always full.

At this point, as they become more self-sufficient, my job becomes one of simple oversight. By oversight, my meaning is correcting whatever I see that is incorrect. As school, friends and romantic relationships become more complicated, I do what I can to help solve the delema and lower the level of chaois in my home. This brings back my own insecurities of my own teenage years, and the relationships that developed or didn’t, at that time, so I am not as helpful as I would like. I am trying, but they are moving away from me mentally. I am handling this period of being pushed out of their lives by doing more stuff. Working and moving my career ahead, updating household things, cars (mine and theirs), and doing home chores have become my activities.

I have come to rural New Jersey from Philadelphia. Not my idea, but my husband’s. It is in the middle of no where, as far as I am concerned. After we were there for a few months, I happened to be across the street visiting a neighbor. It was winter and dark outside. When I left at 7 it was dark, a black like I have never experienced in my life. Naturally, I didn’t leave lights on in my house, why would I ? I literally had my hands out in front of me all the way to my door, unsure if my eyes where actually open or closed. That’s how dark it gets in the wooded areas of the state. Needless to say, it only happened once. Timers became a necessity, and I still use them to this day. I love that invention.

Because I live practically in the woods, it has never occured to me that there is any danger. Sure, my girls drink and smoke pot, but don’t most teenagers? They are headed to college and a wonderful life. Inspite of this positive mindset, this is how we continue along for years. As the two of them slide into the secret world of drugs, I tell them this is incorrect, remind them of the consequences, and that they come from a family loaded with addiction, and yet it keeps growing. I do not see how harmful it is to them, as it is happening in the most subtle of ways and, it is ever so slightly changing them, nor am I willing to believe this is happening to our family. These girls are loved, these girls are smart, these girls are kind, these girls are educated, these girls are beautiful, these girls know right from wrong. Yet, they slide deeper into the underworld of drugs.

It begins with a need to see a doctor for depression and anxiety. The journey they will take, begins there. Doctors are pretty quick to treat a symptom. They are smart and say all the buzz words that get them the prescriptions they want. From the primary care doctor, they will move on to the psychiatric doctors for yet more pills. Meanwhile, none of the proscribed follow through work is getting done. No therapy, no practice of slow breathing, attending a twelfth step program, which has all been suggested never happens. The doctor appointments, however, are never missed. How they would know they have these mental and physical problems is foreign to me, until I remember how smart they are, and between the internet and the new friends, they manage quite easily. I don’t think they are either, yet they are leaving their old friends and finding new ones that I don’t like, but clearly, are of the same mindset as my girls. The more I say this, the more they resist my opinion, and will argue that it is I who are not in touch with reality. I have become unsure of myself, as I do not have letters after my name. Maybe they do have the problems they say they do. I have begun to accept this new kind normal and work with it, in the hopes that they will grow out of this phase of their lives.

I try harder to correct this problem. They get better at lying, and telling me what I want to hear. Specifically, that they realize the error of their ways, and will be taking corrective actions, I believe them, over and over and over. This sick dance is now five years old, and moving along at it’s own pace. Next, I will see the hospital trips, the mental hospitals, the scrapes with the law. I am helpless to stop this behavior, and so I do what I can to help, and always remind them they are loved. I am now in therapy myself, and attending meetings for those who love those who are addicted. Propped up back on their feet, having told and shown me exactly what I need to hear and see, we all head back into life. By this time, one is married, and the other is living on her own. What could be better, right? Well, with a drug problem, that is not how it goes.

These girls of mine have learned from a master how to blow-through life, and not really live it. To live it you have to feel it, identify it, and decide what you want to do about it, or, not do. This would require a quiet mind to reflect these things, not one filled with chores and to do lists. I have inadvertently taught them the importance of doing, rather than taking the time to feel and express those thoughts and concerns. We are all very busy. Me, with handling all my lists and working, and them with all that it takes to try to live a somewhat normal life with a full blown addiction. While being busy is not a bad thing, it can be, if you are using it to avoid what needs attention. It is my coping mechanism, and now I have showed them how to use it efficiently, or so we all think.

I am struggling now with the idea that I can’t fix this problem. Well, struggling is not the right word, more like trying to find my way through this ugly addiction, as seen from my side. Then making decisions as to how I want to respond. As a mom, I want my daughters to know they are loved. As a human being, I have to be careful when dealing with them. They are skilled liars and manipulators. It is not that they don’t love me, because they do, I am as sure of that, as I am the sun rising in the morning. I hope they know this on their side. It is just that this disease is stronger than anything, and it demands attention, period. They know me very well, and know I am a person who can fix problems. They have seen me handle stuff all their lives. I have been duped into doing their bidding on more than one occaision. I am not so easily fooled anymore, and haven’t been for years now. Still, it is a heavy, deep, sorrow that I carry with me always. Every day is a new challenge on how to interact with my daughters in a healthy sane way.

I have already buried one daughter, as a direct result of this disease. The other one is still valiantly trying to make a life, in spite of a full blown addiction. Honestly, her plan is not going all that well. It is during these moments that I am most reminded, “Oh, wait, I am not in charge”. I don’t cause the sun to rise, or to set; I don’t decide who will be born, or who will die; I don’t have control of other people and their choices. I can only love the people who come into my life, for as long as they are here, just as they are.