recovery

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

~ heroin heroine

The first time I walked into a peer recovery center I didn’t know what to expect. A woman i had become friendly with invited me. She was leading a group called “Faith Finders” which gave me pause. That and the fact that I was not in recovery. But I had met her in a storytelling class and kept bumping into her at the gym – so her vibe seemed to jibe with my vibe. And I like saying yes to most things. So I said yes.

The meeting was held on a cold New England evening. The parking lot fronts an active harbor and nearby cars were encrusted with a thin film of ice. When I arrived I grabbed one of the few remaining seats that formed a large circle in the room. I took off my bulky winter coat and placed it on the back of my chair. I snuck a summary glance and noted that, besides the host, I didn’t recognize a single person. This was unusual since I had lived in the neighboring town for twenty-five years. I tried to refrain my eyes from making continual rounds, but we were seated in a circle – so there was no empty spot to rest them. When the introductions began each person shared their first name, followed by “I am in recovery.” As I write this, years later, I can still feel how my body responded. At first there was an initial dulling of the senses (like a baby seal taking a whack with every name call) followed by a sudden infusion of thick, unsuspecting joy. Here i was, seated among a room full of people in long term recovery. Loads of happy, healthy, community-oriented people. Who the bloody hell knew? Certainly not me – and I had been seeking the possibility of such a future for my children for over a decade.

Since then I have been back to the recovery center countless times. I have attended a breath workshop, meditation groups, and for two years a weekly parent support group. I’ve tried acupuncture. I have danced at sober rock concerts. I also scheduled one-on-one meetings with the director where I asked him the most confounding questions like “why?” and “how?” and more desperate ones like”help her” and “help me.” No matter the question, he never batted an eye. Sometimes he laughed, sometimes he shared, sometimes he handed me resources. I always left in a better head space -which is saying an awful lot.

Did you know that center’s like this exist all over the country? They do! And even though my introduction began with a group called faith finders; a recovery center is nothing like a church. Its suggested avenues to wellness are varied. On the sidewalk outside our center a chalkboard invites you to try running club, yoga, book group, art therapy. There’s even a new Ted Talk hour. You may wander in unscheduled and ask for information on how to get yourself sober, how to get a family member sober or how to deal with people who refuse to get sober.

When your children are unrelentingly sick with substance use disorder you become, or at least I became, a weird version of ‘wildy blind’ and ‘blindly wild’. Sharing the unthinkable (how else to release it from ping-ponging around your brain?) and having someone with first-hand knowledge provide clarity (yes, there can be clarity!) is invaluable. And here’s the inherent bonus: recovery centers are manned by those in recovery. Suddenly the dying dream becomes a living possibility.

Oh I forgot to tell you how that first visit went.
When it came my turn to speak I just said “Annemarie.” No re-joinder.

And everyone welcomed me.

The Ranking of Souls

~ heroin heroine

Many years ago my private school introduced DEIJ exercises (diversity, equity, inclusion and justice) during one of our teacher training days. It was a fairly new concept at the time and we prided ourselves on being progressive. It was my day off so I missed the initial session. I was told it began with teachers lined up in a straight line at the far end of a large green field. Questions were asked and if answered in the affirmative you took a giant step forward.

Questions like:
Did you grow up in a two parent home?
As a child did you have food security?
Has your family remained free of incarceration/justice system?
Do you feel welcome in most group settings?
Do you identify as white?
Did you receive a higher education?
Do you own your own home?

Yeses bred more yeses – exponentially. Looking around the field it must have been apparent that a secure upbringing reaped de-facto future benefits. Of course this was the reason for the exercise.

This part of the day I understood.

Later the teachers were handed a worksheet to rank whom they would choose to live with on a deserted island. People such as carpenter, doctor, professor, captain, Gilligan. Okay, it didn’t include Gilligan – but it did include two other distinct prototypes: violent criminal and drug addict.

I was told the drug addict came in last.

Logic must have escaped my fellow teachers. Who chooses to live with someone who is violent vs. someone who suffers from addiction? In a setting without laws or law enforcement why favor the criminal? And what kind of violent criminal are we talking about? If the crime was motivated by greed can they share limited supplies? If driven by power can they live within a democratic structure? Do they have a history of destruction of private property, assault, murder or rape? Do these tendencies evaporate on a deserted beach?

In all honesty, I wouldn’t rush to choose a person suffering from substance use disorder (SUD) either. The scientist, the boat builder, the storyteller – they have obvious benefits. But the person with SUD wouldn’t be last. Admittedly they can be violent: but it’s nearly always in pursuit of their drug. (Which, hello, makes it a non sequitur on a deserted island!) It is also true that active drug users are inconsistent contributors to a functioning society. But active addiction requires access to a drug.

At the time these exercises occurred my teenage daughter was in prison for her addiction. I was angry upon learning of my fellow teacher’s decision making process. It seemed curiously uncaring for a group of progressive educators. And if statistics ring true nearly every one of them knew someone suffering from the disease of addiction. Did they not believe in recovery? Could they not see the human inside? I understand the “eyes wide shut” response. Maybe they didn’t want to look too closely. And then there is the daydream of many a worn out caregiver: life on a deserted island! On this island we never bring our problematic family. We are alone, reading a book, tilting our noses to the welcoming sun.

I considered the human tendency to dislike in others what we dislike in ourselves. Many of us struggle with over-indulgence, keeping our word, consistency, making permanent lifestyle changes. So maybe it was as simple as not wanting to look at themselves.

I am not sure. I will never be sure. It’s too late now to go back and ask. And I don’t know if people would be honest with me. But I do know I was left with a vision: my daughter moving backwards across that green field; like a chess piece being cleared from the board. Thoughtlessly removed when she could still bring so much to the game.

Mark Rothko’s Paintings

~ heroin heroine ~ 2 Comments

You probably know them. Large color field paintings. But Rothko wouldn’t approve of this description. They aren’t abstract color studies. They are nothing like Ellsworth Kelly’s slick designer swatches or Frank Stella’s fun cyclic wheels.

Rothko’s works breathe. When in front of one I am compelled to take a seat. Thankfully there has always been a bench close by. If there wasn’t I would have sunk to the floor. There is no time for self-consciousness when entranced by a Rothko.

When in front of his work a vibrational transfer occurs. The somatic reaction is nearly immediate. It is curious and unsettling – like a magic trick being performed on my unsuspecting body.

And what does my body hear? An urgent whisper to awaken. Rothko’s color patches loom like condensed forms of the natural world – pulsing through the canvas, my body, and the room. All other artworks fall in step behind it.

They feel beautiful. Life’s runway on full display.

And yet I learned today that Rothko created them with a different purpose in mind. “Behind the color lies the cataclysm,” he said in a 1959 interview.

The cataclysm?

I thought his works were a siren call to enjoyment, instead they were warning bells for disaster. That’s a serious misinterpretation.

Sometimes I wonder if at the end of my days I will have misunderstood it all.

Sure I’ll Join Your Cult

~ heroin heroine ~ 1 Comment

Sure I’ll Join Your Cult.

This sentence makes me laugh.
And not uncomfortably so – but in a full throttle, sign-me-up kind of way.

Sure I’ll Join Your Cult is the title of a book by comedian Maria Bamford about her mental illness. The fact that the subject matter is far from funny doesn’t change my reaction. It still makes me laugh. Every time.

It implores me to poke fun of the madness in my own life:

  • Rehabs are nothing more than lock-down spas. #insurancespa
  • Fentanyl gives you more bang for your buck! #smartaccounting
  • Addiction is not for quitters. #winning

It’s sort of funny, right? I am getting a jolly little lift from this creative exercise.
I realize that poking fun at vulnerable people is pretty evil. Rehabs are not spas (beyond the gift of time to focus on health); Fentanyl is not cost effective if it costs lives, and addiction is the one thing we hope our addicts can quit.

But I just want to laugh without reservation. My mind has been too long saturated in this sobering subject matter. Even when having a good time I can hear that little jacka$$ in my brain saying “hey super glad you are having a good time right now – good for you! Enjoy yourself and I’ll check in tomorrow.”

De-coupling from reality might work. Poking fun at myself might work:

  • No I am not your mother. #freedom
  • First ever volunteer for capital punishment! #sweetrelease
  • Unicorns are welcome to give birth in my brain. #hellomadness

I could do a deep dive here on the power of laughter (but we all know the benefits) or the fact that the best jokes are based on uncomfortable realities (my son calls them “cringe jokes”).

But at this point I don’t really care to dissect it. Stay tuned: maybe I will get canceled like David Chapelle! Or, maybe I will make it super easy on myself and completely check out: I’ll just join a cult. 🙂

Surrender

~ heroin heroine

Twelve years. It’s taken me twelve long years to move the word “surrender” from the abstract idea column to the action column. Surrender has become an action, rather than the absence of action. It has moved columns because I have learned it is, by far, the hardest thing to do.

I have had some success with raising the white flag. I no longer have any preconceived notion of catching a thrown ball or successfully geolocating my way home from, basically, anywhere. But surrendering to the fact that I can not stop my own child from illegal drug use – that is heart-smashingly difficult. But reality keeps reminding me. I can not stop her from calling her drug dealer when she is overly anxious. I can not stop her from spending all of her savings, and neglecting car payments, rent, insurance and credit card bills – leaving her penniless (and sometimes homeless) time and time again. I can’t stop her from choosing to smoke crack because her sublocade shot prevents an opiate high. I can’t stop her from laying in bed for days on end after buying designer benzodiazepines from dark web shopping malls. I can not stop her from slowly – or quickly – killing herself. I want to stop her. There is nothing more that I want to stop.

Surrendering is not a new concept in the world of addiction. It’s literally step one of the Big Book. To move forward an addict must admit they are “powerless over drugs and alcohol.” This sort of surrendering is not just word play. It requires deeply accepting the insanity of their situation: admitting years wasted trying to manage, control, deny or ignore the disease. It’s the hardest, most essential, step.

Well it appears that us loved ones have to do it too. Not just pretend to do it. Or half-heartedly do it. I have to admit I can not will her to sobriety. I can not find the perfect rehab. Or a psychiatrist with a magic wand. I can not make her use her “recovery tool box.” I am helpless. Twelve long years have taught me this. Step one of the Al-Anon Big Book requires “admitting we are powerless.” Powerless meaning letting go of any misconception of control. And then actually stopping the manic, obsessive searching for the Holy Grail. So many of us admit we can’t solve it, but then spend endless hours actively trying to solve it! The stakes are so high: it’s hard to stop oneself. But after a certain amount of time we must. And, most worrisome, we must stop any future projection of everlasting wellness for our loved one. We must accept what is. It is not up to us – no matter how much we want it, work on it or wish for it.

We must surrender.
Not “sort of” surrender.

Here’s the difference though: They must let go to live.
We must let go of wanting them to live.

And that’s a very big difference.

Love The Addict, Not The Addiction

~ heroin heroine ~ 3 Comments

This is the mantra of all SUD parents, everywhere, all the time, ad infinitum.

It sounds ludicrous. Similar to “love the sinner, but not the sin.” In reality it’s closer to “love the depressed but not the depression” because addiction is a form of mental illness. No question it can devolve into criminal activity: stealing, dealing illegal drugs, buying said drugs, assault and battery, prostituting, driving uninsured/unlicensed or under the influence, destruction of private property, skipping out on jobs/taxes/bills. If this feels like an unhelpful psychic dump – well, so be it. This is the unvarnished truth of watching the disease unfold.

Sigh. Love the addict, not the addiction.
Still, this is how most of us parents feel. Regardless of the attenuating circumstances.

But it doesn’t come without effort. Especially when you witness their umpteenth battle. Sometimes you are in the crossfire. Sometimes you are the target. It’s not personal we tell ourselves. But it is. Not that we are personally hurt – we learn to move beyond that after a few dozen incidents. Instead we begin a sympathetic slow bleed. Their brain is scrambled and ours is bruised by default.

So what to do if you find yourself ringside again? Eventually we learn it is their fight, not ours. Taking on the role of a health care advocate is invaluable. Be accessible and have an emergency plan ready – a list of places that are insurance card acceptable, and a plan for what you will and won’t support. (And try not to feel guilty if your “won’t” list grows longer over time.)

Until that day comes, can you become a harbinger of peace? You may have to close your eyes to envision it. A friend from long ago told me that at bedtime she places one hand over her heart and one hand over her belly and tries to sync breath and heartbeat – and then she offers it up to her struggling son. A bit woo-woo, yes….but also effective from a “positive psychic dump” sort of place.

Speaking of positive psychic dumps I have been reading Sadhguru’s book, A Yogi’s Guide to Crafting Your Destiny. In it he warns of man’s propensity to rely on articulate memory for direction. Articulate memory being the conscious data we accumulate from everyday living. This “memory data” guides our present and future moments. (Most of us call it learned behavior.) Of course it has built in blinders because it is based on personal experience. This narrows our ability to see what truly is, and to navigate in novel ways. Sadhguru’s thesis mirrors scientific study of the brain: our neurological pathways are built by initial experiences and then reinforced and strengthened by future experiences (which are often predetermined because we are creatures of habit and, well, because we have already built that neural pathway!).

Ah the cyclical nature of disease, brain theory, madness! Who wants out? (Me, me, me!)

So how does one repair a brain sick from habitual emotional reactivity? Teach it to move in a positive direction. It’s not easy (bad, bad brain!) but it gets easier by practicing unfiltered awareness of everyone and everything in the present moment. (Sadhguru coaches setting an alarm on your phone every hour to waken yourself from that cyclical reverie.) Start small. Notice the faces of people around you, the smell of wet grass, the way your body can relax when you allow it too. Build some positive off-ramps to that diseased neurological super highway.

Now none of this is novel – many meditative, yogic and psycho-social practices have been preaching this for centuries. We also know it’s trendy as fu$%. Sometimes the sheer number of bumper stickers and t-shirts can make me want to give a few people the finger. Maybe you want to give me the finger. 🙂

And, yah, some of those future unfiltered moments are gonna be bad. We know they are. As my husband warns, ‘Why live them before they have happened? Why live them twice?’ And sometimes that bad experience will turn into something positive – it happens all the time. So many, many people heal from their addictions. It’s time for me to do the same.

We Begin Again Too.

~ heroin heroine ~ 3 Comments

When a family member relapses waking moments are not fully your own. Work seems less important. Socializing seems trivial. Food loses its flavor. Affection is harder to feel because sorrow has taken up residence in your breastbone and your heart can no longer radiate. You feel unjustifiably tired. Tears hang out right behind your eyeballs. It takes a lot of effort to keep them there.

This is the time when I lecture myself to “pony up” because the disease is worse for those with SUD than it is for me. At least that is how I have always looked at it. But lately I have begun to second guess myself. When someone is fully in their disease they aren’t experiencing crippling worry (unless it’s how to secure their next fix). And once they get high, they certainly aren’t thinking about you. The only person who can think about you is you.

Someone once reminded me, “as they begin again, so do we.”

But this “beginning” occurs on separate paths. Thinking about this makes me sad. As much as we may want to prop each other up, addiction for families is not a team sport. It may be called a “family disease” but there is little togetherness. Addiction is the opposite of together. Even in the closest of families it does it’s best to destroy connection. The problem with this is that as a parent you believe it is your duty to move everyone forward; like a sheepdog gathering it’s herd. For twelve long years that is what I tried to do. I now know that the only way toward peace and clarity is to strike out on my own.

Last week as I sat on my patio feeling the warm sun on my face, I began to ugly cry. Immediately I tried to shut that pity parade down. As I tried to suppress my feelings I considered how I would counsel a friend. I knew I would tell them that what they were going through was definitely sad and that crying is a natural response. So I stopped holding my breath and allowed myself to cry. And it felt honest. Which is a small victory because honesty is something addicts, and their loved ones, are terribly afraid of.

I considered what “beginning again” had meant to me in the past. It had meant getting my loved one back on track. Finding beds in detoxes, rehabs and sober homes, double-checking insurances, packing up apartments, handling transitions, medications, cigarette runs, money, clothing deliveries, speaking with counselors, attending family meetings, researching new therapies. For me it’s always meant this laundry list of things. These things are hard and getting through them requires an amnesiac version of auto pilot. But the truth is this time around the amnesia is leaving me. Clarity has finally rung its little bell and left a little dent in my shiny armor.

I know I should be completely satisfied that my loved one is beginning again. I am aware that my despondence over being at the starting point again is not helpful. I know that relapse is part of recovery. I know that I am not qualified to solve this problem. I know that they are doing their very best. I know that love doesn’t solve all things. And I know that where there is life there is hope.

I know all these things. I suspect I need a new path to walk. A road with a new signpost. Maybe it will say “let it be” or “hello me.”

Paper Airplanes of Love.

~ heroin heroine ~ 3 Comments

Everything is a love poem.

Someone said this recently.
I think they were joking because their tone was a bit flippant.
But after he said it he let a long pause hang in the air.
And the pause felt like a challenge.

I guess I would like to believe that everything is a love poem.
I admit I embarrass myself. Am I just a silly girl?

Yet there is a whole lot of love tucked into nearly every day: A smile from a stranger, the cat that follows you down the driveway, the extra cheese someone put on your sandwich, the feel of the wind on your cheek, an evening swim, a pink sky, music on the radio, cold ice in a drink, the feel of a warm embrace. Right now my big old red dog is laying down under a tree and sniffing the air. If he catches me looking at him he will feel the need to come stand by me, and in doing so he will have to move his arthritic hips. I look quickly away so he will not struggle. Love, love, and more love.

Of course we can’t dismiss the broken hearts, the divorces, the deaths.
Yet these hurt because they showcase another side of love: the loss of it, the memory of it, the importance of it.

Then there is self love. Contrary to what our media feed may tell us self love is not a day at the spa or a healthy meal delivery from an internet box service. True self love depends upon unconditional love.

The first time I considered the meaning of “unconditional love” was after a text from our family therapist. She implied that I might have been lacking it. She sent it upon the aftermath of my umpteenth midnight run to pick up my screaming daughter from a police lock up. The therapist was wrong. Nothing my child did or said could have made me love her less. I was just not willing to equate loving her with letting her go. I was not willing to “live and let live.”

Sometimes I criticize myself for all the time spent “loving” her – often at the expense of the other members of my family, and my own. (If you think you are hard on yourself ask a mother of an addict how she feels deep down inside.)

I had a fabulous therapist for a year who asked the most ridiculous questions: what kind of wild animal did you see today? what is your love language? But she was also spot on. She brought me back to the love that was all around me (that old dog under the tree, that cheese on my sandwich, that pink sky).

Unconditional self love, however, is a strange concept. We misinterpret it. We think a self improvement regimen is as an act of self love. Or we recite our strengths to feel worthy of it. But self love requires something completely different. It requires accepting that mountain of other, quieter, stuff; our operating quirks, our bias, our mistakes. That mountain grows as we get older. Maybe that is why so many of us address it later in life.

My New Year’s resolution is to take time to sit quietly.   To sit quietly atop my mountain of stuff.  And I am going to write some love poems.  And I am going to let them fly.

Sthira vs. Sukha

~ heroin heroine ~ 4 Comments

Sthira and Sukha are popular yoga terms meant to convey a “yin and yang” sensibility. I think of sthira as “roots” and sukha as “wings.” A more accurate translation of the Sanskrit would be “stability” vs. “lightness.” When practicing Ashtanga yoga I have always sought the sukha, or the potential to fly. I sometimes giggle aloud when my feet release skyward or my heart floats up to the ceiling. It is such a rare treat to escape gravity’s pull.

Sthira, however, is quite different – in many cases it requires the engagement of the larger, lower, muscle groups (the quads, the glutes, the abdominals). For two weekends now I have been reminded that stability is key. Scot, our instructor, has had us feel our feet, bend our toes, challenge our inner and outer thigh muscles…he even put us in cat pose and had strangers balance their bodies atop us in a form of improv contact. These undulating movements required constant shifting of my center of gravity in order to take someone else’s flight – or to entertain my own.

I thought I understood: ground yourself before you take off in flight!

Once again, I required re-direction. I overheard Scot explain that being actively grounded allows the upper body to be consciously free. “Active” being the key word.  Do not rest in your present position – but fully feel it for what it is (whether it be crooked floorboards, the push of another body against your spine, or the outward turn of your imperfect feet.) By doing this you are not actively seeking flight or lightness of being. You are instead grounding yourself to the earth and thereby engaging an interior reservoir of strength. Only then will your body feel safe enough to bravely reach upwards.

That is when the lesson sunk in. I have lived this lesson. For years I tried to create and recreate stable, safe footing for my daughter who suffers from addiction. I bounced between “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Maybe I should have said this. Maybe I missed something developmentally. Maybe a new school will work. Maybe a new friend circle. Maybe a new therapist. Maybe a new medication. Maybe exercise. Maybe more consequences. Maybe less consequences. Maybe a different insurance plan. Maybe, maybe, maybe….” I left no rock unturned. I needed her, us, to be free. But sukha was nowhere to be found.

I remember the moment when I finally accepted our situation. I was driving and the sun was setting and and my whole sense of being was flooded by the fact that my daughter had relapsed again. I didn’t know how to be. How could I just be with this? I remember breathing and releasing into that moment with a complete acceptance of the truth. It was dusk and the sky opened up before me and I thought, “this.” There is “this” too.

This acceptance, which I still feel vaguely uncomfortable with, was a long time coming. I had to fully acknowledge that change may not be possible – at least not in this present moment. This is not an easy thing for a mother to fully feel. But once I did I noticed the sky. It sounds so cliche – but at that moment I was fully awakened to the incredulous sky. I also understood this to be the second part of Scot’s admonition: to be consciously free. I chose to see the sky.

Since that day, nearly three years ago, I have looked upwards and found something akin to flight. And, incredulously, for two years my daughter has stood on terra firma.

We are free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Partying with the Sober Folk.

~ heroin heroine

This time a year ago I was my daughter’s guest at a recovery barbecue. We made our way there via a South Boston park with harbor views. People were playing what appeared to be a game of “pick up” baseball. A handful of lucky fans sat under the few trees that sported shade. I kept walking through invisible puffs of cigarette smoke. Children were screaming with their mouths entirely full of half eaten hotdogs. It was, you know, quintessential American stuff.

We found the recovery center across the street – in the scrubby back yard of a former church property. Outside an old man with a gold tooth was watering an incredible, and I mean incredible, garden. He smiled at us.

Inside the yard we were handed raffle tickets. Strangers cooked us hamburgers. We drank extremely cold sodas from an overly iced trash can. People made room for us at crowded picnic tables. We ate watermelon and chips from wicker baskets. We listened to top 40 music from speakers slung here and there.

I watched a young man perform a break dance that was skillful and unabashed. He spun with pure joy on a small patch of concrete. His eyes were half closed. My self conscious self had nothing in common with him. At the time I thought it was the dance that enthralled me.

Later this same boy shared his story. His drug use had left him homeless. He had slept under a bridge for a year: through a Boston winter. His life had been saved by another person at the party.  His life had been saved by some guy at the party.

How many of us ever save anything? Maybe we salvage a burning dinner, or retrieve a lost accounts payable receipt. Better yet, we preserve a colleague’s job. Or rescue a stray dog. Those are all great for sure… but not quite the same.

Clearly this was not your typical barbecue.

When the young man won the raffle prize (a long sleeved jersey) he handed it to my daughter. He knew she liked it. Possibly he was trying to impress her, but of that I am not certain. I do know that he most likely owned very little…and he gave it away just to see her smile.

Inside the building we found my daughter’s counselor playing the cello. She had it steadied between her legs, and her tattooed wrist held a delicate, long bow. A young man with the teeth of a meth addict accompanied her on the guitar. The sound of her cello and the sound of his voice broke my heart into a million, billion pieces.

I have been turning this day over in my head for a very long time.

“PTSD” – Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

~ heroin heroine ~ 2 Comments

This is when I am supposed to reference Webster’s dictionary. I can picture the bulleted item list that has been carefully compiled by doctors and psychiatrists, and craftily winnowed down by editors.

Yet words are bound to fail. PTSD creates a feeling that can not be contained by bullets or paragraphs. If forced to use words they would be: “sense of dread.”

A sense of dread accompanied by unwelcome imagery. Imagery that is not imaginary. Dread that is not unjustified.

The ring of the phone makes me ill. Physically ill.
A knock on the door? Visions of a police officer.
An envelope without a return address?  Bad news.
My daughter not texting for a few days? Relapse.
Sad song on the radio? Message of doom.
Bitter snow? Frostbitten child.
Cheap motels off the highway? Sadness, loneliness, death.

My list could be longer. But it hurts to write it. If I suffer from PTSD, how badly must my daughter suffer? I have seen the results of her use, but have not lived through the experience of it.

“Conquer your fears” is written everywhere nowadays – from business journals to self help magazines. But the kind of fear they often refer to is that of financial risk. (Or a lifestyle change: try that new vegan diet! get a new partner! make a career switch!) I am talking about a different kind of fear. A primal fear. The fear of losing your stormy green eyed child to something so unpredictable, so misunderstood, so maddeningly unacceptable. I have written my daughter’s obituary in my head. I have actually looked in my closet to see if I have an acceptable black dress. These were my attempts to conquer my fear. My attempts to claim and manage the unacceptable.

Nelson Mandela says that “courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it.” That the “brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.”

I am not there yet. But my daughter is. She is putting one step in front of the other…. steady and straight. Even with those swirling thoughts that must exist in her head. If I had to provide a picture of bravery for Webster’s dictionary it would be of my stubborn green eyed child making her way across a tight rope.

And I am waiting on the other side.