Addiction Recovery, being in recovery, is a life sentence. For addicts, it can only be self-conferred. For their families, it’s served voluntarily and, as I have recently experienced for my family, fervently and passionately and zealously. Given the grief-to-earnings Insanity Scale between death-by-heroin, active-addiction-wretchedness, and in recovery, it’s the only way to pass go. With a doable rub. It’s not a sure thing; at best it’s a definite and defiant balance of for better and for worse. Maybe like remission, with the sword hanging ever overhead.
I’m not the addict; I’m just her mom, and the grandmother of her son, the saver of her life, who we will meet when he is born any day now. She will, God and the rest of us willing, serve a prolonged, sustained life in recovery. And so will I and the rest of her family. If she can keep a life grip on it, so can we. It’s not the life she envisioned, and it’s sure as hell not what I dreamed of, but after ten years trapped in the yo-yo spiral between shadow and shroud, it’s breathtaking. There’s a long way to go, and this is a forever-work-in progress, every hour, every day. I’m okay with that. I’m not naïve that it’s very early days, but it’s been enough days to finally risk the statement:
We are one badass warrior Family In Recovery.