Faith

What does your faith mean to you? That is, if you have faith. Let me tell you about my mother in law, a true believer in faith. A devoted catholic. A woman who is only happy doing for others. This woman is dying, she has a progressive illness that steals the very breath from her body. It's not from smoking but from genetics. She does everything and I mean everything right, takes her medications at the prescribed times, even getting up at 4am to take one of her medications. I won't go into all of it but you get the picture. Lately her illness is taking more of a toll on her. She's tethered to a bigger tank of oxygen, she loses her breath, she gasps and pants with exertion. Her faith gives her fuel, it feeds her soul, perhaps takes away some of the fear I imagine she has to feel. Tonight I went to mass with her. I am not a good catholic. I don't go to mass, I have some issues with the church itself but not God. Anyway, she lost her breath in the car but it didn't stop her. Her mission was to get to church and she did. She used to go daily but her illness has sidelined her. It hit me at church. She sat next to me and she sang. Her voice strong with conviction and faith. Her voice began to waver as her breath left her. I felt tears in my eyes, knowing that this woman next to me believed so much in where she was going. I can't ever know what she truly feels about her situation but I do know her whole life was devoted to God, her family and helping others. ********************************************************************************************************************* To laugh often and love much, to win the respect of intelligent persons and the affection of children; to earn the approbation of honest critics; to appreciate beauty; to give of one's self; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived --- that is to have succeeded. -- Harry Emerson Fosdick

My little red toy box

The beginning.

In my minds eye, for as long as I can remember, my parents always drank. It would start at dusk for my mom. My father could have started at 11 am, laughing that it was 5:00 somewhere. They would have a seat and share a snack along with my moms' manhattan and my dads' gin. That was the start, always.

I had a red toy box. My dad built it for me. It was bigger then average. It could hold tons of goodies my toys, papers and me. When the drinking started I would clean it out, get my pillow and my pink and white striped blanket and hunker down for the night. She would come for me. To rant and rave about something I did. She never hit me. She just yelled and said mean things. Then she would lock the door, from the outside. I was ever sure why I got locked in my room at night. I imagined I was horrible because that was what she said. For hours I would wait for her crying to stop, again I didn't understand why. I was five.

When it got quiet, I would push a chair to my door, open it, reach my skinny arm through and unlock the chain lock. I would roam the house. I would sneak into the kitchen and eat. I would use the bathroom go back to my room and lock myself back in. They never knew and I never told.

My red toy box was my sanctuary. It hid me from the craziness, it kept me safe. I was a messy kid. My stuff was everywhere. My dad decided that if I couldn't clean my room he would do it for me. He took everything. I mean everything from me even my closet doors. I was left with a mattress on my floor and a pile of clothes. The lock changed to one I couldn't get out of. Time passes and I'm not sure how old I am at this point perhaps, seven? I can remember being terrified to turn on my light. I had no window coverings and I thought people could see me. I would lay still on my bed, listening to my mom cry and praying I didn't have to pee. No one would let me out anyway.

Did I mention I had two older brothers? I don't know why they never got locked in their room. They wouldn't let me out either when I would yell through the crack in the door I had to go to the bathroom. To this day my one brother thinks its funny and still mimicks me.

I don't tell you this for sympathy. It is just a fact. It's my beginning. It was all I knew. My red toy box...meant for happy things was my reality of a sort of home. Sometimes I wish I still had it.

Where did the I love you go?

It's no secret that I am struggling with my son. He wants independence, he takes it, feels its owed to him, no one will stand in his way of it and in some ways I get that. What I don't get is the lack of respect he uses to gain his independence. The defiance is at times outrageous. Does this man-child really think its ok? I see in his face the struggle he is having with in himself but his needs outside of this home override the needs of his family. How easy it is to walk away then to look in the mirror and see what reality is. I know because he is so much like me.

I picture him as an internal tornado. Emotions, hurt, pain, shame, dislike all swirling inside. He self medicates. There it is, the reality, the thing that parents fear or what I fear the most. I know addiction. It's walked with me my whole life. It began with my parents, I, too became an addict. I watched people die from drinking and drug use. I saw some people make it out of addiction and have a life, a career and become successful. So my fears, my very valid fears get placed at my sons feet.

My struggles are with when to let go...let him be independent, let him be the grown up he thinks he is. Let the responsibility fall on his lap for the choices he makes. I find it so hard to let go of the litte hand that was in mine, the innocence, the joy of the shore, dirt bike riding, playing the game Capture at dusk with his friends, nursing the many injuries he had. The beautiful smile and always the I love you before he went to bed.

Those things are gone and as a parent my heart breaks. I feel like I have lost him to a world that I've tasted and lived in. One that I struggled and clawed my way out of. I truly thought I could raise my kids differently then I was raised. I thought if I didn't drink their lives would be better. A false notion that allowed years to go by in a cloud of denial. I am a good mother, I care, I love my children. Failure was never an option, a thought that in itself put pressure on all of us.

At this point all I can do is hope. Hope that he sees how hard it is to let go and how much I love him while I do so...it hurts, there is no seeking my approval because underneath all of this, whatever happens he is still that silly, crazy, lovable beautiful kid. He is so young, not quite 17 and he never says I love you before he goes to bed anymore.