I’ve always said that parents are the First Responders in their child’s addiction. We are the ones on the front lines, the ones with the Narcan, the ones making the frantic calls. But for a long time, I didn’t realize I had become a First Responder who never went off duty.
There were nights—more than I can count—when I would wake up at 2:00 AM with a start. I’m intuitive, and sometimes I’d get dressed because I knew the phone was about to ring. But then there were the other nights. The nights where I didn’t move. I just lay there in the dark, paralyzed, while the voice in my head scared the shit out of me.
That voice was relentless. Where is he? Why isn’t he home? Why isn’t he answering? I would play out a thousand horror movies in my mind, each one ending with a knock on the door from a police officer. Some nights, the voice turned inward: Was I a good mother? Did I love him enough? What did I do wrong? Why is our first instinct to always blame ourselves? It took me six months into knowing he had a problem to even begin to realize how bad it was about to get and that it wasn’t my fault.
In my book, Peeling the Onion, I wrote:
“I was so busy trying to save him that I didn’t realize I was drowning right next to him.”
I wasn’t just drowning in his choices; I was drowning in my own imagination. I didn’t realize it then, but my son’s addiction had become my drug of choice. I was hooked on the terror, the adrenaline, and the “what ifs.”
The Mess of the Mind
We talk about the “mess” of addiction in terms of broken hearts and financial ruin, but the mess I made was in my own head. I allowed my peace to be held hostage by a phone that wouldn’t ring. I let the “voice” convince me that if I stayed awake long enough, I could somehow prevent the inevitable.
Over the years, I got emotionally sicker and sicker until I was numb. I wasn’t available to the healthy people in my life because I was unaware that I was full of grief, despair, and depression. This is the Unhealthy Helper’s biggest lie: the belief that our suffering can pay the ransom for their sobriety. It can’t.
Taking Off the Uniform
Healing began when I realized my hyper-vigilance was just another form of “using.” I was using the crisis to avoid my own life. I had to learn that whether I was dressed and ready or asleep and resting, I was still powerless over the disease.
I had to peel back the layers of my own “onion” to realize that I deserved to sleep even when he was spiraling. I had to take off the uniform. Taking off that uniform meant I was finally resigning from my position as his “Chief Enabler.” It meant I was no longer a soldier in a war I couldn’t win. When I hung up that heavy armor, I found something underneath I hadn’t seen in years: myself. I wasn’t just a First Responder anymore. I was Donna. And Donna deserved to be at peace.
A Note to the Parents in the Dark
If you are lying awake tonight, listening to that same terrifying voice, I want you to know: You are allowed to turn it off. You are not a “bad mother” for wanting peace. You didn’t cause this, you can’t control it, and you certainly can’t cure it by sacrificing your sanity.
True strength is found in surrender. May your faith and strength heal your heart. May your faith be the anchor that holds you steady, and may you find the courage to walk toward your own healing. It’s time to stop cleaning up the mess in your head, take off the uniform, and start reclaiming your heart.