That’s Just What Men Do

 

Photo Courtesy of Caroline Hernandez, Splasher

“Well, Bobbie, that’s just what men do,” she said to me tenderly. “My uncle did that to me too.”

My eyes grew large as I looked at her and said, “No. That is not what men do.”

The discussion was about her granddaughter. Her granddaughter who had been sexually abused by her son. She was able to accept this as the way things were. I cried. I cried for hours. I couldn’t stop. You see, I didn’t want to believe he could do this. But if his mother thought he could, well, then, I knew he did. Later years he finally admitted to me that his niece’s accusations were, in fact, all true.

I shed tears that day for her, her granddaughter and for myself.

Triggers Show Up Out of Nowhere

I was in my early 20s and suddenly on that day a flood of memories hit me. I remembered the abuse I suffered at just four years old and again at 11 by a trusted family member. I wept for myself and the little girl I had been. For the toddler who was terrified and shocked and the pre-teen who was ashamed and embarrassed that anyone would touch her “there.” I wept for the teen I grew to be that developed breasts too late and was teased. I wept for the teen whose breasts ended up being larger than everyone else’s. I wept for the girl whose breasts were always a subject of discussion, whose breasts got touched “accidentally” by doctors, teachers and even church members. The breasts that boys bragged about touching even if they didn’t. This woman sparked memories in me that I had hidden so deep I thought they were buried. The flood gates opened.

I tried to self-destruct. I tried to run from the memories. I was trying to drown the memories so I could put them back where they belonged. I punished myself for the action of others. Indelible in the hippocampus was the shame I felt so many years ago (sorry, couldn’t resist—it is such a good line).

Forgiveness Heals

During my entire adulthood I rarely spoke of these incidents. My sister, my best friend and my husband were aware of the details. That is all. Then as I was working Step Four with my sponsor, I wrote out my resentments. So many names on my list referred to the men in my life who had sexually abused me. I wrote out the names, I wrote out the incidents and I just let it all sit there for a few weeks. As I was working Step Five, I spoke of these incidents to my sponsor. She listened. She nodded. She was gentle and reassured me I had no part in these resentments. We went to her burn pit and lit them on fire. I was free of the incidents that had haunted me for the first time in my life. They no longer took up space in my head and my soul.

When You Know Better, Do Better

I truly don’t believe that anyone thought they were hurting anything when they hurt me. I have come to believe that they were doing the best they could with what they had. “That’s just what men do” came from a woman who came from a generation that believed that. I am not saying this to excuse the behavior. I am saying this because this is how I am able to forgive. We are getting better. We are raising our sons to do better. We are teaching our daughters not to be silent. I have wondered, with recent headlines, what would happen if we all spoke up and named names? How different would our world look? I know that I don’t have the guts to do this. I know that I am okay and even better than okay most days. I truly don’t have it in me to destroy families by speaking up. I’m okay with that. Just as I am okay with the women that want to speak up after so many years and tell their story. I will stand up with them.

Triggers Can Go Both Ways

What I really hope is that my abusers remember what they did. That these headlines have triggered memories in them that they are finding difficult to live with. I don’t need an apology. I would love, however, some living amends to be made on my behalf. I want all of our daughters to feel safe in safe places. There are terrible people out there, for sure. But, there are places the terrible people are not supposed to be. Your home, your church, your school and your doctor’s office to name a few.

I hope that they see the hurt and feel the pain and stand up and say, “This is NOT what men do.”

How Far Will You Go To Protect Your Addiction?

Lies

“Have you been drinking?”

“No.”

My standard reply. Always. It didn’t matter if I had been drinking or not. This was what I always answered. And not just, “no” but “no” with a little indignation thrown in. Like, “no, why would you ask that?” or “no, what kind of question is that?”

But, chances are, if someone asked, I was. Because I always was. Vodka. In my coffee, my iced tea, my diet coke. Disguised in a water bottle. Wherever I was. Coaching, playing ball, watching my kid play ball, family get-togethers, and even babysitting. It didn’t matter where I was. I always had a drink in hand.

I guess I thought I wasn’t hurting anyone. It was about me. My vodka, my life. I had gotten to the point that without it I became extremely anxious and couldn’t really leave my house. I had gotten to the point that it just became my big crutch.

Actions

One evening I was babysitting my granddaughter. I was supposed to pick up my sister at the airport so I had my son leave my granddaughter’s car seat. And I wasn’t going to drink. My sister hadn’t met my granddaughter yet and I was really excited about it. She was just a little over 3 months with red hair and gorgeous and I was so in love with her.

I wasn’t going to drink. So, instead, I took a Xanax around noon. I knew I would get really anxious and I felt this would be the best plan. I took another Xanax on my way to my son’s around 4 hours later. Somehow I felt this was better than drinking. Maybe it would have been. But, guess what? I fixed myself a drink.

My son had all this alcohol on the top of his fridge. Awesome looking stuff if you’re me and an alcoholic. He had peach or pineapple vodka and I couldn’t resist. I made myself a drink. I only had one. I thought that would be okay. The baby and I fell asleep and were awakened after about an hour from my daughter.

“You need to go pick up Amy,” she says. “okay, we’re up.” I replied.

“Have you been drinking?” she asks.

“No.” I say.

The Drive

I get the baby in the car seat. My two nieces ride with me to pick up my sister. I can barely keep my eyes open. It is about a 20 minute drive and I struggle to stay awake the entire time. We pick up my sister who oohs and aahs over the baby and I take my sister to pick up her vehicle about 30 minutes away.

“Are you okay?” she asks? “Just tired,” I reply.

By the time I drop off my sister I am more awake. Her youngest gets in her car and her oldest stays with me and my granddaughter. (later I found out she stayed with me because I seemed off) At this point, I don’t know how to get back to my son’s, so as I’m driving I pick up my phone to put in the address. I look down and swerve. A pretty big swerve I was told. I correct myself and start to look down again. My niece takes the phone then so I can tell her the address. I don’t remember his address. I give her a cross street and we figure it out. The rest of the drive is pretty uneventful. That is only due to luck. Or God’s grace, which is what I’m going with.

Consequences

At my son’s my behavior became more erratic. The Xanax and the alcohol combined just made me more drunk. My daughter drove me home and gave me a lecture the entire way. The next morning I woke up with a little headache. I walked into the kitchen to find 4 empty vodka bottles on the counter. It seems while I was sleeping they found my stash of empties. No one was around so I just threw them away. To this day, I don’t believe they have ever been mentioned.

Needless to say, I was no longer allowed to babysit. My relationship with my son and daughter-in-law was so strained I wasn’t sure it could be repaired. And if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have blamed them. I thought that, since I only had one drink it was okay to drive. The reality is, I shouldn’t have driven. I shouldn’t have been babysitting.

I was willing to drive with my granddaughter before I told anyone I was drinking. I didn’t want anyone to know. I thought I could hide it. The memory of this incident still makes me sick to my stomach. I can’t even tell you how many tears I shed because I did this.

This just shows how far I was willing to go to protect my alcoholism. I would risk mine, my sisters, my granddaughters and my nieces lives. This night could have had an entirely different ending. I am grateful I am here to tell my tale, as horrible as it is. I am forever grateful for second chances.

How Do I Keep It Away From My Family?

Since I began “recovering out loud” and sharing how addiction has affected my family this is the number one question I receive. “How do I keep my children from going down this path?”

I mean, you’re asking me? I obviously failed and I have my own demons I battle. I can tell you what we did. I can tell you the decisions from the past that I have poured over trying to find my own answers. Not sure what the golden ticket is though. Maybe I’m delusional and his childhood sucked. Maybe I let him get away with too much. Maybe I grounded him too often. Maybe not enough.

Do you think I ignored him at crucial times? When I became a parent at the early age of 21 the thought of addiction didn’t enter my head. I had this beautiful red headed baby boy and all I wanted to do was teach him Bible verses and how to play soccer. Two years later and his brother is born. I was ecstatic and in love with my two beautiful boys. And I really couldn’t wait until they played soccer. I loved reading to them. We would read every night before bed. This started at birth and continued until middle school. I read every single Harry Potter book out loud. Twice.

Do you think he had too much time on his hands? “Keep them in sports,” everyone said. “They won’t have time to do anything else.” That was my plan. They played soccer, baseball and hockey. The three of us took Tae Kwon Do together. Eventually summers were so full of baseball we did nothing else. We traveled all over and loved our baseball family. I remember thinking, “no way would they get in trouble, there is no time.” Summers were full of “drive ball” tournaments in our yard. They’d start early and end late. I’d make lunch for the whole group of boys that rode their bikes to our house to play. We’d have brackets and teams and a lot of fun.

Then high school happened. They get to high school and they make time for the bad stuff. When I was in high school I always wanted to push the envelope. Staying inside the lines was never enough for me. I always wanted more. I have passed that trait down to my children it seems. It’s funny when you look at your twelve year old kid and think, “uh oh, he’s just like me.” Only outside the envelope got a lot scarier. I pushed the envelope with drinking and pot and these things called pink hearts (today I think it‘s Adderall). Parties for my sons were prescription drug parties and drinking and pot and ecstasy and parents’ pain killers. It went up a notch and it’s scary.

Keep them in church? I started them out in church. Will say I failed on that one. But I do know that I was raised in church and I still tried everything. I still found a way to push against all the rules. I tried to be the good girl. Other days I tried to be the bad girl. I know of families that can’t understand how addiction got it’s way in and they were/are avid church goers. I believe in prayer — but I’m not sure the answer is just keeping your kids active in church. I was on the Bible quiz team for Pete’s sake. I still found a way to stumble. It definitely can’t hurt. Maybe it gives a kid a little more armor.

Teach them the consequences? I mean — you think I didn’t? You think that they didn’t do the D.A.R.E program at school? We had discussions. Heck, we had discussions about addiction and genetics and the fact that addiction runs in our family. But — we all have that moment where we believe we are invincible and that the bad stuff can’t touch us. We really believe it too. Until it does. Touch us. I mean, why specifically MY son. Why does he have to fight these demons?

He wasn’t alone you know. He didn’t try heroin for the first time by himself. Yet, I watch those kids have families, move on with their lives and have successful careers. While my son just fights for normal every single day.

You think it’s about moral fiber? Strength of character? I’m going to have to call BS on this. He shows so much strength every day that he stays clean. It is effort for him to exist. He has gotten to the point that nothing is comfortable without some form of being altered. He is learning new coping skills. The things we take for granted — breathing for example- are difficult for him. Every. Single. Day.

You think maybe I didn’t spend enough time with my kids? I was always with my kids. Their friends were always at our house. We traveled across the country together. The kid has been in forty something states. I’m sure he thought I was around too much. I was a stay at home mom from the time he was around 9. I played ball with him and his brother. I learned how to roller blade by playing hockey with them. I was always the room mother. The field trip mom. The score keeper. The soccer coach. Pretty sure that all things considered — I spent enough time with him.

He had a pretty decent childhood. He had a lot of family structure. I’m sure this doesn’t make the young parents feel safer. It’s true though. I mean, if you’re looking for blame, the buck stops here, so to speak. I don’t really know what I would go back and change. When I ask him — he tells me nothing I did or could have done would have made a difference. He is one of 4 and he is the one that is genetically predisposed to addiction. I think addiction is like a tornado, hitting one house, leaving the next, just swooping in at will wherever it wants. I guess maybe I needed better storm windows or something.

I think it would be better for anyone looking at us to find flaws with the way he was raised. To see neglect. To see abuse. To see mistakes. To see something that would make them exempt. If I knew what it was, I would tell you. I promise. I see all of the purple ribbons on social media and my heart aches. I wake up every morning and I wonder what the houses look like of the over 150 people who died while I was sleeping of overdose. And my heart aches.

Today looks different than I imagined it would when I held that baby boy with the blue eyes and the curly hair. These days his norm is rehab, work and meetings. It’s okay though. He is still my baby boy and I will fight this beside him as long as he needs me too and as long as he is fighting.

66 Days

My son is home now.  I went and picked him up yesterday.  So, my son was in jail for various stupid reasons, but ultimately, he was there because of his lifestyle choices.  He is a heroin addict and sometimes in the middle of your addiction, reason doesn’t win out.  Actually, reason doesn’t show up.

66 days he was incarcerated.  Some of those days, I felt like I couldn’t breathe.  Some of those days I cried.  Some of those days I was just normal.

He missed his daughter’s birthday and his cousin’s wedding.  His cousin was his best friend growing up.  Had he lived differently, my son would have been in the wedding.  They were best friends growing up and inseparable.  Hopefully, as my son gets his life back, this is a relationship that can heal.

I was angry Sunday after the wedding.  I cried.  At the wedding we took family photos.  We did the classic mom/kids shot with me and my children.  We did the cousin shots.  We did the sibling shots.  In the moment I was okay.  The thoughts were there, but I stayed in each moment.  The wedding was incredible.  But man, I was just freaking hurting the day after. Angry.  Not sure at whom.  God? Addiction?  My son?  Family genetics?  All of it I guess.

I spoke with my cousin/friend about all of this.  In the middle of my ranting it hits me hard.  You see, she lost a son 12 years ago.  He should have been in that wedding also.  The 3 of those boys were just trouble and fun all rolled into one baseball.  They were about prank wars and building hideouts and playing baseball.  Amazing how a phone call with the right person can put everything in perspective.

I began letting the anger go.  My son is home now.  He gets to come back.  He gets to try again.  I get another chance to help him be the man he is supposed to be.  Somehow (I am sure through a lot of prayers) my son has managed to stay alive through his addiction.

There are so many freaking quotes and sayings about how to get through tough times.  Guess what???  Life is not a freaking meme.  Funny thing is, I have an Instagram page that publishes these memes.  I’m not feeling all that meme(y) today.

So, feeling my feelings.  A concept I’m still not that used to.  It is getting easier though.  When you drown your feelings in alcohol the way I used to, feelings are just strange at first.  Feeling pretty good today.  I have hope.  I have second chances (okay, probably more like 50 or so chances, but you know what I mean).  This mom is fighting with all she’s got and not giving up.

My son is home and working on his recovery and today he has 67 days clean.  Going to build on that.  66 days of incarceration.  66 days that hurt and gave me hope at the same time.  We’re all in and we’re doing this.happy-family-standing-beach-sunset-time-keep-letters-forming-word-concept-friendly-49113043