Guest's blog

For more than eleven years, my life has been about alcoholism. When I met my ex-partner the signs were clear, but surely I could save him? Over the first six turbulent years, I was introduced to his demons, to his solace in alcohol, and I found out about my own needs to mother, smother and control the uncontrollable. I was in love with his humour and intelligence and soft, caring nature when he - as he often did - managed to stay away from the drink over longer periods of time; but they didn’t last.

In October of last year, the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Service Administration (SAMHSA) released a study that showed an increased rate of illicit drug use among members of the baby boomer generation (ages 50 - 59) of 3.1.

This is my journal entry from March of the year my son died. It's easy to see that I was in the anger stage of grief.

“If you loved me, you’d stop!” How many times have you said, pleaded or screamed these words at your husband, brother or daughter after a particularly nasty bout of drinking? How many times has your wife, sister or son promised to stop or cut down…drink no more than two a day or drink only on the week-ends? How many times has your heart been broken when this time turned out to be just like all of the times before?

I spent the year after Duane died just trying to keep myself busy. I got an anti-depressant from the doctor which helped some but I find that if you have something "real" to be depressed about, it doesn't totally mask that sadness. I remember I took a trip down to Florida where my oldest son, Johnny went after Duane died. He was broken and we sent him to live with his sister and her family. He was so fatalistic about life - saying stuff about if life is a game, he gives up, "they" win.

This is about my son Duane who died of a heroin overdose when he was 19. Don't think it's easy to talk about this just because it's been four years - it's not. I don't know if that will ever change. I grow weary just wondering at how it can still hurt after all this time. Of how I can still wish it wasn't so. Of how I re-think all that I did in this. Of how much I loved and continue to love that boy of mine, my Duane, my precious one. I only write this because (it's so cliche but) I want so much for someone to benefit from my family's experience with my mortal enemy, drugs.

One of the women I sponsor in Al-Anon celebrated her birthday last night. I’m not referring to the day she was born (what we call her belly button birthday), but the day she found her way to Al-Anon. My first meeting was a birthday meeting, and it struck me as a strange custom. That fact that I needed a program like Al-Anon seemed no cause for celebration. I had no intention of marking the date. But within a month, I was backtracking the weeks to mark my calendar. I couldn’t articulate it at the time.

When I was a kid, I had parents that were everything but “normal.” One, they were young hippies, 18 and 20 respectively; Two, it was the ‘70s; Three, my parents were divorced, something that wasn’t nearly as common then as it is now. I often found myself standing outside of the primary social circles at school, amongst my neighbors, and within the confines of my familial structure. Yes, even in my own family, I felt like an outsider.

I recently read on one of the addiction websites I frequent about the ridicule a father faced because he cashed out his retirement fund to continue to pay for his 17 year old son’s rehab stay. He was shamed and chastised for giving up his future security for a hope in a sober life for his precious son. The responses were meant to be helpful and supportive, but came across as being bitter and angry.