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Hope for Mothers of Addicts
Finding Hope Family Support Groups
Written By
Finding Hope Team
Hope for Mothers of Addicts
This is for the moms who might need a little hope.
We are a powerful bunch. Moms. We love deeply and move 90mph on most days, keeping all the balls in the air. We have hopes and dreams for our kids as they grow, and rarely stop to consider that it might not work out.
It happened to me. A single mom with a bright, beautiful, challenging son. And when the signs of his impending addiction began creeping into his daily life, I went into full-tilt mama-bear mode. I screamed, I yelled, I laid down the law to no avail. In the end, I just became tired, oh so tired, as I lay in the bottom of the river of denial. Wishing, hoping it was a mistake — that it was different, and that he was different.
But, I have since learned the power of this cunning and baffling disease that takes no prisoners, moms included. Addiction takes an emotion as pure as love and turns it on you like a knife. "You say you love me? Watch this!" as the money evaporates, as family treasures mysteriously disappear, as strangers show up at your door with sweet smiles of innocence and vacant eyes whispering in the back room during their five-minute visit.
And you know you are smart, that you are a good parent, but the crazies wash over you, and you begin to sink deeper and deeper into the river of denial. “Not my kid,” you say. “It's just a phase.” Then the darkness of reality begins to take over, and when you are alone, you crater. He could die. He could go to prison and want to die.
So you lie in the fetal position and cry, all the while asking, "How did we get here? What did I do wrong? It must be my fault." Then you rally, because you are a mama bear and your kid is at stake. So you make a plan. New friends, new geography, a meeting here, a counselor there — and the money flows out like water.
All the while, you grieve. You grieve the loss of the kid you had. He is gone forever. The addiction took him away. So you try to love and like and even know the kid that is left. And you send denial packing — it's useless — and embrace the awareness of what is left. You put down your weapons of anger, bitterness, and resentment. They have left huge battle scars on your heart. You ask for forgiveness from God, yourself, and your kid.
Then the healing begins. It begins with you, the mama bear. You put on your oxygen mask first, whispering prayers of redemption to heal your child, to heal you. You ask for a simple night’s sleep, for your job to be stable, for the few people who know your story and stick around anyway to never leave or forsake you. You take baby steps toward trust. You make plans for the day, not the year.
And you hope. You start to let go of the fear, to trust God, to trust yourself. And you learn that, although it may seem horrible, it rarely ever is if you have hope. And you stay in the shadows of others who have hope. The spirit of hope is powerful but not cunning, inspiring but not baffling. That is the difference. Hope brings us to our knees for all the good things we pray for. To never, never, never give up on ourselves or those precious babies we call our sons and daughters.
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