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A Letter To My Younger Self: It Will Be Okay

I wish I could write like our favorite Aunt Becky, but I can’t. My words will be misspelled, my commas will be out of place, and there will definitely be run on sentences, but I swear like a trucker so somehow I think I will fit right in.

So back story: BAD shit happened to me when I was a kid.

You know, my dad was an alcoholic, show me on the doll where the bad man touched you, which I never told my parents. My sister got pregnant when she was 14 and eventually my Mom could no longer deal with it all so I had to pick up the slack. That kind of bad shit.

There were days when I didn’t know if I would make it. Days that I wasn’t able to deal. I would burn myself or punch a wall just to feel… something. I made it through bruised but not broken.

I just wish I could tell the young girl that dealt with all of that what I know now.

I’ve been talking to a young friend who is going through so much in her life right now. She reminds me so much of my younger self. She, like me, puts up a strong front, but just beneath the surface you can see the hurt and self-doubt. When asked we will both say we are “fine.”

Every time she says it to me, my heart cracks just a little. See I know that when she says, “I’m fine” what she really means is “This hurts like hell! My heart is breaking. Somebody please just take away the pain.” I just want to give her hug and tell her it will all be okay. I won’t, mind you, because that would make me seem weak or soft or whatever my fucked-up mind thinks.

Still, through talking to her, I’ve been thinking, what would I tell my younger self?

So I wrote myself a letter today. Maybe it will help her or some other young girl who needs to know it WILL BE OK.

Dear Tonya,

I know it’s hard right now, but experience brings knowledge, adversity brings strength. None of that makes a damn bit of difference when you’re hurting but faith, faith gives you hope. The hope that there is something greater out there brings a small amount of peace even in the darkest times.

When you find love, it calms. Love doesn’t hurt; it heals, it comforts, it expands. Love gives. It should not take away.

If life seems to be spiraling out of control, find solace in the small things. Family, friends, music, words. These are your armor against all that will stand against you.

Remember that the lessons learned from the mistakes we make and the paths we choose make us who we are. Never regret them. To do so would mean you doubt yourself. Nothing and no one should make you doubt your worth.

Though it’s sometimes easier to forgive others than yourself, YOU ARE ONLY HUMAN.

Be as kind and love yourself as much as you do those others.

Stand tall without being cocky and be proud of who you become.

I know I am.

Tonya

PS. If none of that shit works there is always vodka.

Like Fathers – Like Sons

Adult Children of Addicts are at a far greater risk to develop addiction to substance abuse.

This is the story of three brave men:

My father was the son of an alcoholic.  He had a brother and 3 sisters who all would partake in the ocassional alcoholic beverage but never let it interfere with the normal every day functions of their lives.  My father, on the other hand carried on the family tradition/trait/ illness, or whatever you wish to call it.  He was not an abusive drunk, although I do remember he and his best friend trashing our house fighting each other when I was a pre-teen. He was very much involved in my life and that of my brother and sister, but he was still an alcoholic.

As years passed, his drinking became more and more severe.  It wasn’t until my teen years that I really started paying attention and noticing that he was consuming a case or so of beer by himself, everyday, along with as much as a pint of liquor.  He became more pissed off at the world and everything about it.  The world was out to get him and so was everyone on the planet.  It was getting to the point where nothing we did was right.

After graduating high school, it was time to marry my high school sweetheart.  A day I had dreamt of for a long time.  I was never one for dating and the whole girlfriend issue, but this girl was for me and I was so looking forward to that special night and our first dance as husband and wife.  In the middle of the most special dance of my life, my father interrupted and said, “why don’t you play something we all like?”  Our wedding song was “All Of My Love” by Led Zeppelin.

I was stunned, flabbergasted, ashamed, and yet I let it slide.

I vowed my entire life that I would not be like him, and to that I stayed pretty true.  Sure, I had the occasional drink as a teenager.  Yes, I got drunk from time to time but never really cared enough for it to become a regular thing.  Never would I be like him.  I would not put my children through that, even if he was not mean, it was not a childhood I would not want any kid to have to live.   Little did I realize at the time that I was just like him.

Although I was not a drinker, I had no problem smoking pot, tripping on acid and mescaline, doing ‘shrooms, or just about any mind-altering substance that I could get my hands on.  But hey, I was not a drunk.

It wasn’t until my mid twenties, deep into a cocaine free basing addiction that my wonderful wife, the high school sweetheart, told me  ”I don’t know what you are doing, but you either quit or I leave.”

Wow, a brick in the face that one was.

I finally looked at myself in the mirror, literally, and saw a pasty grey skinned man, skinny and sick looking he was just one step away from death or an institution.

I quit.  I vowed to myself and my wife that I would never touch the stuff again.  I spent several years going to narcotics anonymous, sometimes 2 or 3 times a day and I am proud to say I am free, clean, and sober.  I am a fairly healthy 45 year old man still married to my high school sweet heart, and I have 3 wonderful sons and 2 grandsons.

I have felt their joys and sorrows.  I have seen their smiles and frowns.  I have been there for them.  And I was there to help my oldest son through his addiction.

He chose to follow me and go the drug route.  I have always been open with my children about drugs hoping that it would steer them away since I was speaking from personal experience; not quoting something I read in a book.  He saw it like, hey you’re still alive, it couldn’t have been THAT bad.

On his 17th birthday, I did something that even I could not believe.

On the way home from picking him up at school one evening, he was so wasted that he was actually hallucinating in my car, asking me questions about how we were going to get the car through all those trees, and what were we going to do when we got to the end of the road where it turns red. I was so scared for him; it was time for another search of his room.  I found pot growing in his closet, for the second time, so I figured I had no choice. I turned in my own son and he spent his 17th birthday in the county jail, and several others months following.  It opened his eyes a bit.  He stumbled a few times since but is now a wonderful 21 year old man with 2 sons.

One night, not to long ago, he finally told me that he hated me for quite a while for turning him in, but he then said he could not thank me enough for what he did and that he loved me.

I am constantly worried about him.  Will the stress of the children lead him back to the drugs?  Will he make it through as I have?  Will any of his children follow the familiar path?

One good thing that has come of my sons addiction is that his younger brothers want absolutely nothing to do with any of it.  So for now I just let him, and his brothers know, that I will always be there for them, and that life might not always be wonderful but it could always be worse.

And of course, I must thank my wonderful wife.

She stayed with me.

She saw the problems and instead of bailing out she stuck by my side.

She spent several weeks with very little sleep as my mind and body fought each other she was there to calm me.

She saved my life.

In Which I Tell Satan To Go To Hell

What a difference a year can make.

July 19, 2009 will always be an important date in our families personal history book.  To most this day passes without a second glance, but to us, today will always be the day God saved our son.

The emotional roller coaster of this day has not even come full-circle, the accident happened at 7PM.  And yet, before 9AM I have felt joy, peace, fear, sadness, anxiety, hope, reassurance and love.

And, I’ve told Satan to go to Hell.

Because today, friends, is about celebrating life & all that it has to offer.

The fear and anxiety that Satan is calling me to feel will not overpower the joy and celebration of this day. There are many forts to build and pools to swim, trees to climb, and playgrounds to discover. We do not have time to waste on worry.

There is too much life to be lived.

Last night, as Bubs slept, I crept into his room and I knelt down beside his bed. There, I gently stroked his chest and legs & I prayed and cried and thanked the Lord.

I thanked Him for:

  • his strong frame that held the heavy weight of that 800 pound golf cart
  • his wherewithal to hold that beautiful head up as the cart drug him along the concrete earth
  • his tiny bones that may have bent and broke but held it all together, somehow
  • for the neighbors who rushed to help my family in those moments before the paramedics arrived
  • for the paramedics who worked swiftly and kindly with my little fragile son
  • for the pilot that drove the helicopter carefully and without haste
  • the doctor’s that worked through the night to repair his tattered, broken body
  • for the nurses that healed my family as much as they healed Bubs during his time in Children’s Hospital
  • for the gift of medicine, that allowed our sleepless son to rest, and be relieved of pain, long enough to heal his bones and build up his energy to fight again the next day.

And then I thanked him for our gift of friendship. My, how we’ve been blessed.  The old saying is true, you really don’t know who your friends are, until you need them. And Lord, when we needed friends, you showed us in overwhelming numbers. You gave us an emergency room full of love and prayer. You filled the waiting room for countless hours while we waited for the doctors to tell us the surgery was complete. You sent visitors and toys and prayers and hugs.

You sent tiny angels Lord, and we have seen Your face.

I will never forget the faces as I entered that emergency room.  Their concern and worry wrinkled over their knitted brows. Most of them looked like they had been praying for hours, deep in communication with their Lord. Some of their eyes fell as they saw me wheeled through the room – they didn’t want me to see them crying. They are a force to be reckoned with – those prayer warriors.

I will never forget looking around as they rushed me back to my son.  I have relived those moments 365 times since then… The faces of friends who came from far and away – I saw you all. The faces of people who love my little family & the little boy behind the wounds.

I am forever indebted to them.

And I am fine with that.

In my hour of need, Lord, you gave me friendship. I am honored to say that I learned to give from the best. I am honored to call them friends.

There were times when my heavy heart and tired pregnant body didn’t think it had any more fight in it – and in those times I remember the people I love carrying me.  I remember friends calling and emailing & praying. I remember physically feeling those prayers working.

I have seen the face of God.

I call them friends.

And, I believe in prayer. And, I am blessed because of it.

Today, I will celebrate. I will go to a pizzeria and order a movie. I will buy “grey ice cream” (Oreo) and I will top it with chocolate sauce. I will watch him blow out candles and I will play with his hair until he falls asleep.

Today I celebrate life.

And tell Satan to go to Hell.

Discovery – I am an ACON

Discovered, after 40+ years that I am an ACON (Adult Child of Narcissistic Parent)I guess I knew along that something was wrong with our family growing up, at least, with my relationship with my father, I just never knew what it was. I guess I just never knew that my “normal” was not normal.

Happily married for 12 years with 2 wonderful children, there were so many episodes with father in my adult life. Episodes between him and my wife, episodes between him and me and then the deal breaker, the last and final episode when he started on my 10 year old son. It was like something inside of me let go, something changed. I was furious at him, I was enraged like I had never been before. I thrust myself into a quest for answers, to answer the ultimate question as to why, why is my relationship with my father a complete disaster, why can’t I have a normal relationship with him?

In my search I stumbled, by accident, across narcissism. As I read the definition and characteristics of a narcissist it was like I was reading about my father. The more I read, the more I was blown away about what I had discovered. It was all there, every bit of it, all the criticisms, the one-upping, the belittling, the obsession with money, the gambling, the down-talking, the tone of his voice, the disregard for boundaries, the fits of rage, the inability to take criticism, the ego-driven decisions, the lack of common sense, the lack of empathy, the threats, triangulation, the control of information, all of it was there…. and so, my journey to recovery began. I have much more to say, much, much, more….

I Want To Thank You

a woman i used to work with emailed me this week.  i read it yesterday and it absolutely made my day, which – i might add – was spectacularly craptastic until I got the email.

“i started working at magic kingdom back in 1997 and only partially knew who you were. you were always cool to me at town square and spectromagic and stuff, but we were only acquaintances. i happened upon your page through mikki and started reading your blog, “bits of myself,” and i cannot help being taken by how fucking amazing you are.  sorry for the language from someone you do not know, but i can’t think of any other words.  i don’t even remember where i started the “bits,” but i backed up to where you found out you had cancer.  by the time i got to your final breastfeeding with nugget, there were uncontrollable tears streaming down my face at how you kept apologizing to her, for something that you did not ask for.i don’t know how much all of this means coming from someone you don’t know, but i just had to get this out.  i was driving day parade floats when you were at magic kingdom with your baby girl, and i saw you two days in a row.  knowing how painful it must be, there you stood in the sun, in a tank top, bald… smiling and waving.

i hope i didn’t weird you out with all this, but know that you have touched one more individual’s life.  you are the strongest woman that i don’t know.”

i just needed to thank you for that and let you know that your kind words have touched my heart.

thank you for reading my blog.

and thank you to all of you who continue to do so.

i hope you’ll all stay tuned for the exciting conclusion to this chapter of my life.

All That You Can’t Leave Behind

The desk is always manned by a sweet-faced volunteer to help you find whatever you’ve lost or find your way, except when, of course, you cannot find it at all. There are flowers there, too, beautiful flowers, always fresh flowers. Usually lilies are mixed in, fragrant lilies, reeking of death and funerals, but the flowers are so beautiful that you can almost forgive the scent that makes you want to vomit.

Over there is the place you cried until you dry-heaved as you took your infant daughter to her third MRI in her first week of life. And just past that is the chapel where you prayed for her life. The stained-glass windows during that frigid February day shone a cold bright light as your daughter slumbered through an anesthesia coma, and you tried to forget all that you knew about neurosurgery.

You prayed with all of your soul.

Above the chapel is the waiting room where you sat after you’d dropped your daughter off into the arms of her neurosurgeon, hoping that the last kiss you gave her warm, delicious head, wouldn’t be the last kiss you ever gave her. You sat in that waiting room with the three people who cared enough about you to show up and hold your hand and you choked back tears as the operating room nurse brought you back a bag of your daughter’s first hair in a bio-hazard bag.

You held that bag and wondered if that would be all you had left of her.

Below that waiting room is the gift shop where you dragged Nathan, someone who you will always treasure for being a friend when you needed one most, to buy your daughter something hopeful. A necklace. Carefully, you pick out a necklace that you will give your daughter and someday tell her, “Amelia, Princess of the Bells, Mommy bought you this when you were having your brain surgery.”

It’s a very beautiful necklace. A crystal encrusted heart on a simple silver chain in a velvet bag. It is perfect.

You hope she knows that this necklace is very, very important.

Two floors and a yawning corridor away, is the happy floor, filled with women and new babies, where your life was forever changed with seven words, “Becky, there’s something wrong with your baby.” A new world was created then, a secret place only you could go, this land of tears.

Your soul broke.

Up above that room, down another winding corridor, you screamed as they wrenched your nursing baby from you. Your breasts wept, too, as you cowered in that bed, terrified, in your secret place, your own land of tears.

In the dark basement, worlds away from the happy new parents above, you joined the ranks of the hollow-eyed ghosts in the NICU as you signed in and out to see your daughter. There, at least, you didn’t scare anyone with your eyes swollen nearly shut from crying and cheeks raw and bleeding from hospital grade tissues.

Above her bed there would be her bed post-surgery in the PICU and seeing her in a gown that bore the same logo as the hospital you’d worked at in nursing school made it almost easy to pretend this was all some vicious nightmare. That maybe you’d wake up to a normal, healthy baby.

Then your daughter would cry, her voice raw and hoarse from intubation and you knew this was your new world order.

When your other children came to see their sister, you’d rearrange your horrible face into a mask of what you hoped would pass as cheerfulness, ply them with candy, and hope that they wouldn’t look too closely at your shaking hands or tear-stained face. When they screamed, “I want MOMMY!” as they left for the day, you felt torn between the two worlds, one of which you’d just as soon leave behind, too.

All corridors eventually feed into the cafeteria, where you remember laughing for the first time in months. It was a jangled, strangled sort of sound, but there it was: a laugh, from your mouth, and it was real.

Down by the statue of the heart or perhaps children dancing in a circle is where you waited with your daughter as you took her home with you for the last time. Surrounded by all of the pink things you could find, balloons deflating slightly in the cold February air, you were exhausted, but ebullient: your warrior daughter had made it.

A mother had never been prouder. You held her car seat close to you as you whispered to her sleeping cheek, “You made it, my girl. You’re a fighter like your Momma, all right.” This time, for the first time in her life, when the tears wet her cheek, they were the good kind.

But late at night, when the rest of the house sleeps, these are the corridors that your mind roams, over and over. Your memory, photographic, can recall everything with the sort of clarity that makes you relive those days constantly.

You are forever delivering that sick baby.

Constantly having her wrenched from your arms, always back in those terrible moments roaming the halls, seeing the same desk clerk, smelling those awful lilies, dry heaving into the diaper bag.

The sadness is omnipresent and yet nowhere. It is the new world order.

Save for roaming the corridors all night every night, you haven’t been back to those halls since your daughter had those awful thick black stitches removed from the back of her head.

You must return. New problems, a new specialist, means one thing: you must face your demons and return.

A new desk clerk and a new flower arrangement await you in the official looking building in which you found absolutely no comfort and now you must face up to walking these halls once again. It’s likely that you’ll cry. It’s likely that you’ll dry heave. It’s likely that no one will understand your reaction to this big official building. It’s just a place, after all.

But this is so much more than a place. It’s where the old you shriveled up and died and the new you was dragged screaming into the world.

So you and your ghosts walk the corridors all night every night, reliving the worst parts of your life, wishing they could be laid to rest, knowing that they never will.

Ever.

—————

This post was written by Becky Sherrick Harks and originally published here, on Mommy Wants Vodka.