My daughter in a moment of detoxifying rage branded me a martyr.

Instead of breathing through it, or calling upon compassion I saw red. Red like the color of battlefields. Red like the color of my pulsing carotid artery. Red with trembling rage. Red, red, red. We were in the car, and for the next 45 minutes I drove in seething silence. She didn’t notice (she was, grant it, preoccupied with her own dire situation) but I stewed in the toxic air. I am fairly adept at looking for what i call the “glimmers” (ridiculous bright spots in an otherwise devastating day). But I consciously chose not too. When we pulled in to the detox facility I forced myself to get out of the car and say the requisite “I love you.” But I didn’t feel it. She replied “I love you too” but her back was to me and without turning she rolled her suitcase toward the open, waiting doors. I returned to my car and shut its hermetically sealed door behind me.

Am I martyr? Why did it inspire rage to be called one? The word used to have positive connotations. I think of Alexi Navalny and I want to cry. I think of ‘saint cards’ (meant to resemble baseball cards) that were handed out at Sunday school. They memorialized do-gooders who willfully submitted to beheadings, drownings, and being grilled over hot coals instead of renouncing religion. The child in me made a mental note of the cost and wondered if there was a sneakier more effective way to buck the system.

The millennial martyr seems to lack heroic luster. He is either a sucker for his job, a self-proclaimed spiritual savior or a psychopath (think delusional mass killer inspired by misinformation). When the word martyr is used in today’s news we brace ourselves for an unfortunate tale about a corporate fool, ridiculous narcissist or mass shooter.

I am assuming my daughter meant I was a fool. And possibly a narcissist.
Both of these would be some degree of right.

A fool repeats stupid behavior. Am I fool to once again clean out her apartment, bring her home (even though she is using) and volunteer for the long drive to detox? I don’t think so. Those were the steps that needed to be taken to get her to a better place. So where is the fool in this scenario? Am I a narcissist to think time and again I can make a difference? History would say I have helped – i recall therapeutic schools, doctors, rehabs and section 35s that helped stop the addiction (at least for a little while). And history would say I have not been helpful; I have often wasted my time and energy doing things that she could have done herself, or that more knowledgeable others could have done for her. Yet in the big scheme of things the yeses seem more important than the nos. Energy is not always spent efficiently – even by the most efficient of animals. And sometimes a person with the disease of addiction has a hard time asking for, or helping, themselves.

Do I think I am a narcissist? No. But I am a busy body, a worrier, and a fixer. And more problematic: a fixer with my own timeline (and boy does that have shades of narcissism). These things are no longer needed: they do not serve her and they do not serve me.

I have learned that to expect change (no matter how important that change is) is to be a bully. The evening before she left for detox we cleared out her beautiful apartment. Up and down three flights of wide oak stairs we carried boxes and bags. The night was curiously warm and the stars were bright. Feeling momentarily inspired I tried to cheer her up; “this is going to be it! I have a feeling this time is going to be the time!!”

She responded with sputtering anger: “NEVER EVER SAY THAT TO ME AGAIN!!” And then, more quietly, “don’t you think each time I thought it was the time? Don’t you realize that?”

The younger me couldn’t have been more wrong: there are no life “hacks,” no sneaky shortcuts to the finish line. Foolish old me has learned this. If we are lucky, forward propulsion will be fueled by varying degrees of support, delusion, sweat equity and terrifying routine.

And, regardless, the night sky will remain stubbornly still and bright with the whitest of stars.