My Inner Grinch

Yesterday my sister and I came up with a plan to steal a holiday wreath off of a friend’s door. This particular friend, self indulgent and oblivious to anything that isn’t directly revolving around her, is constantly blowing up Facebook with her amazing achievements and overly important life. Most recently she posted photos of a Christmas wreath she made so it could be adorned by all of her Facebook ‘friends’.
The sheer egotism within her latest post sent me over the edge.  “I feel like stealing that dumb wreath right off her door,” I texted to my sister. “Great idea!” she responded.
And so it was decided…my sister and I were going to explore our inner Grinch.

Why would we do something like this?
Because her joy is, to put it simply, irritating.
I realized that both my sister and I dread the holidays every year, but for completely different reasons.
My sister, mother to four boys, has always worked extremely hard to make a decent living. Like most of the free world, December is a serious financial burden for her. Giving her boys a good Christmas is sometimes difficult and December always hangs a dark cloud over her paycheck to paycheck lifestyle.
This fact sometimes gets lost in my envy of her.
She will have all four of her boys with her on Christmas morning. It will be loud and chaotic and she will probably need Xanax.

It will be the polar opposite of Christmas morning at my house.

Financially Christmas isn’t burdensome to me. Emotionally, however, it is devastating.
This will be my third Christmas without my son.
My house will be silent on Christmas morning. I will give my dogs special treats, reply to a few Merry Christmas text messages and try like hell to not be devoured by the emptiness that consumes me.
My son’s death left a hole so big in our family that you can actually taste it at family events. This is why the holidays, full of family events, leave a very bitter taste in my mouth. It is why, even though I am welcome, I won’t submerge myself in the Christmas morning chaos at my sister’s house. Because the tangible emptiness that everyone feels during family events is only escalated when I am there. It is like I am wearing a shirt that says “MAX IS DEAD” whenever I partake in family functions. This isn’t because my family feels sorry for me. It is just because we feel sorry…for Max, for ourselves, for each other. We all hate the taste his absence leaves in our mouths, but each of us has had to learn to swallow it anyway.
When you loose someone who is such a big part of your family the holidays stop being about togetherness and instead become a time to reflect on what is lost.
Which, I believe, is exactly how the Grinch came to exist.
 
So my friend’s wreath is still on her door. I imagine my sister and I will be too busy, too tired and too moral to actually take it. But just the idea of taking it has made both of our holidays seem a little more joyous. You can judge us for that….for wanting to steal a little joy away from someone else in order to give it to ourselves. I believe that when grief comes you can’t be held responsible for the new ways you try and discover joy. 
In my book, the fact that people keep trying to find joy at all is good enough.

After Losing My Son

Sometimes you just have to die a little inside in order to be reborn and rise again as a stronger and wiser version of you.

What I have discovered in life is that when you are broken, when life is dark and you hang your head in defeat, this is the moment that you are on the verge of something great.

It is within these moments that great risks are taken.
Those dark moments, the moments that ultimately define us, are when we take our deepest breath and make our greatest change.
Since my son's death I have spent many days dancing in darkness.
Smiling through my tears. Wrapping my arms around others instead of allowing arms to be wrapped around me. I have ran half marathons. I have gone back to school to study addiction and its effects on the brain. I have laughed. I have joined grief groups. I have made new friends.
I have danced.
During the darkest, emptiest moments of my life I have made the choice to dance.

The most important thing I did after losing my son was begin to write to him. Essentially I began to write myself through the pain. In these quiet moments I began to put myself back together. Writing to Max allowed me to express myself in a way that I was unable to do beyond the sanctity of my home. Talking myself through his death brought clarity unlike any I was able to find in therapy or in the tearful moments I spent along side family.
Writing, for me, is the catalyst for which I am reshaping my life.

Although spiritual, I am not a religious person. I don't pretend to be held in God's arms and kept safe until I am ready to face the world again. Instead, what I am referring to is the way the universe (perhaps your God) has a way of putting great obstacles in your way before allowing you to see clearly all that surrounds you.
If you are alive enough to dance in your darkness, then you are strong enough to forge your new path.
In my life, great change has only come after I have endured great pain. Only after I have sat quietly in grief have I been able to move not just forward, but down a new, unchartered path.

If you have lived in this darkness then you understand what I mean.
It's only in our darkest moment that we are able to understand great change. It is only in the lowest point of our lives that we are willing to take great risks.
Because it is only when you have nothing, that you realize you have nothing to lose.

He is Someone's Son

Yesterday I decided I needed a mattress cover for my bed.
I have been thinking of purchasing one for well over a year now, but yesterday I made the decision to head to my local Home Goods store and finally buy one.
I live in a fairly affluent area and it is extremely rare to see homeless or transient people loitering in retail areas. That is why I found it so shocking when I saw a young man and his small dog sitting outside Home Goods with a suitcase and a sign that said. "Anything Helps".

I knew this young man. 

He was my son.

I couldn't bear to look at him because although he wasn't actually my son, he was someone's son and he was homeless, dirty, and on drugs.
I tried to scurry past him as quickly as I could but he said "excuse me, do you know what time it is?" "A little after 5," I said. He looked at me through sagging eyelids and said "thanks."

As I was choosing my mattress cover I was secretly praying that he would be gone when I came out. 'Maybe he asked the time because he is expecting someone to come pick him up,' I silently hoped.
I found myself repeating 'please be gone' over and over in my head. Looking at him was agony. A pain I haven't felt since I saw my own son wither away with drug use.
Not all the chanting in the world was going to help though, because when I walked out he was still there. I got in my car as quickly as I could, put it in reverse and I couldn't move. Hunched over and completely high he began to fall sideways. He did this 5 times, catching himself an inch from the ground every time and sitting back up. His small dog stared at him with concerned eyes and I began to feel ill. 

This could be my son. 

I put my car back into park and turned it off. I took a deep breath, opened my door and walked up to him.

"Hi there," I said, "what are you doing sitting out here?"
"We had a very long walk today," he replied.
"Do you have anyone who can come pick you up? Any friends or family?" I asked.
He proceeded to tell me that his family has disowned him and his only friend is his dog, which he picked up and hugged with all the energy he could muster.
"Why would your family disown you?" I asked.
"Drugs." he said, flat out and without hesitation.

I crouched down a few feet away from him and asked him if it was worth it, drugs instead of family. He told me he doesn't have a choice. Rehabs don't work and nothing can keep him sober. He told me that nobody understands what its like and that there is no way to escape it. 

"People yell at me from their cars. They call me a piece of shit. They tell me they are calling the police. But you know what? The police never come. And you know why? Because nobody cares. The rehabs let you out after 30 days because they know you can't stay clean on your own so you'll be back and they can make their money all over again. They know that nobody is going to hire us, they know that we have legal shit we can't ever get taken care of and they know we'll be back. But not me. Not anymore. I'm done with that shit. This guy right here keeps me going (still holding his dog) and we manage just fine. Nice people help us eat and we have each other."

"You remind me of my son," I said, "he died from a drug overdose."
"I'm sorry to hear that," he replied, "but that was his only way to escape, you know that right?"
I smiled at him and began to cry. 
"My son was worth more than this and so are you," I said, "I know you have people that love you and want you to have a better life." 
"This is my life now. This is as good as it gets for people like me. Tell me again, how old is your son?" he asked.
"My son had just turned 20 when he died," I said.
"Thats young. He got out young. I'm 23," he muttered. 
"You are young," I said, "and worth more than this."
I stood up to leave and asked him if there was anything I could do for him. 
"We have all we need right here," he said.
I began to walk away and heard him say, "god bless you ma'am, and god bless your son."
"Thank you," I mumbled under my breath as I tried to stop the tears from taking over.

"He is still with you, ya know, your son. He is still with you."
"I know," I told him, "but I'm going to leave him here with you for awhile."

Dear Friend, I miss you today...

"Where are these scars from?" she asked.

"They're battle wounds," I replied

"Who were you battling?"

                                            "Myself."      author unknown                     

                                             

My son Max was a warrior.

Since his death I have slowly begun to look through his belongings and read through his journals. The entries tell me that my son was fighting a battle within himself that not even those of us that were closest to him truly understood.

During these days of sobriety, when he was safely in treatment and I was able to sleep at night, he learned to convey his feelings through art and music and letters he would write.

"Dear Friend" it would say, "I miss you today."

He was poetic in his verse and humble in his art. His heart yearned for sobriety, but his mind had him locked in a very dark place. 

"There is no oxygen here" he wrote. "My body, so malnourished because of you, has grown from 165lbs to 205lbs in the 45 days I have been here. If only I felt inside like I look on the outside."

He drew images of lions and swords and hands grasped tightly to bars that they could not escape.

On the outside he was becoming whole, but on the inside he was fighting a never-ending battle.

I have so much admiration for my son. He touched so many lives. People are sober today BECAUSE OF MY SON. 

What a great honor to be able to raise  a young man who could change lives simply because he existed. The battles he faced, and ultimately the war he lost, is a testament to the strong, innovative young man he was. 

He was fearless.

He was compassion.

He was titanium in a world made of mercury.

He was smores on a perfect spring night.

He was love. Pure in form.

"Dear Friend" he wrote, "I can't see you anymore. You have taken everything from me, my family, my home, my youth, my memories. You aren't my friend. You never were. But still I know that you won't ever leave me. No. Not really. It is only in death that we shall part."

For Max, and all of those that have lost their battle with addiction, join me in remembering on Saturday, August 31, 2013.

International Overdose Prevention and Awareness Day

Standing Tall

I am glad that Cory Monteith died.

That sounds outrageous doesn't it? 

Don't misunderstand, I am saddened to hear about the death of this talented young man. It is heart wrenching to think of what his family is going through right now. However, as strange as it may seem I feel appreciative for anything that brings addiction to the forefront of peoples minds...anything that is far reaching enough to save lives.

Cory Monteith was a successful actor and musician and he was raised in a good home with loving parents. He had friends, a beautiful girlfriend and probably more money than he could ever spend.

And he was a drug addict.

He had battled the disease since he was 13 years old.

Seemingly doing well since his last 30 day stint in rehab, no one expected Cory Monteith to die. 

I didn't expect my son, Max, to die either.

"He appeared healthier than he had ever been..."

That's what Cory's friends said who had dinner with him just hours before he died. 

They are the same words I used to describe my son at his funeral.

Addiction is a disease. 

Since 2011 drug related deaths have outnumbered traffic fatalities and, according to the 2012 United Nations Report, more than 200,000 people around the world die from drug abuse every year. Even more disturbing is the fact that less than one out of every five people who need treatment actually receive it. 

My son was one of the few who did receive treatment. 

Cory Monteith? He received treatment too.

Does this mean my son was one of the lucky ones? Cory Monteith? Was he lucky?

What is left after such a young, promising life is cut short? 

Their story. That's what is left.

It is why I tell Max's story and it is why I so outrageously said I am glad Cory Monteith is dead. I am, of course, not glad that he is dead. I am sickened and saddened all at once. It is the same way I feel every time I hear about another person losing their battle with addiction. I feel like I need to do more...reach more people...make more people understand that addiction is not a choice. I am hopeful that the far reaching legacy that Cory Monteith leaves behind will save lives that Max's story won't be able to reach.

Because maybe, in the middle of all the statistics and sadness and senseless loss someone like myself will stand up and say "I know someone that died from a drug overdose...and he wasn't any different than you are."

If there is one thing in this life that I am certain of it is the fact that if my child can be an addict and die from a heroin overdose than anyone can. 

Because drugs are everywhere.
They are in your child's school. 

They live on your street. 

They sleep under your roof. 

They can happen to anyone, at any time.

A tragic death like Cory Monteith reinforces that.

My mom asked me today if I knew who the highest paid actor of 2012 was.

"No," I told her. "Who?"

"Robert Downey Jr." she said, "how does he stay sober?"

"I think he finally fully understood step 1 of the 12 step program, he admitted he was powerless to drugs," I told her.

She agreed and added that he really loved his wife and kids too and that must motivate him.

"Mom," I said, "addicts don't get sober for other people."

"You're right," she said, "I forgot."

Her only grandson died less than two years ago...and she forgot...

It's a shame it takes another death for people to remember. 

But that is the cycle of life I guess...it goes on.

It is our job, as the survivors of addiction, to make sure that our loved ones story is told. It is our job to stand up tall and say that our loved one died from drug abuse and that there is no shame in it. 

Grief: Happy and Sad

'So this is my life...and I want you to know that I am both happy and sad, and I am still trying to figure out how that could be.'

The Perks of Being a Wallflower

I heard Max's voice for the first time since he died. 

It was a voicemail that I had saved on my phone, recorded 2 days before his death. It took me 610 days to gather the strength to play it. I knew it was there...I knew that he probably said "Hi mama...".

I knew that I could probably hear him say he loved me.

Every day I have thought about that voicemail. Saving it...relishing in the fact that I would be able to hear his voice again. I just didn't have the courage to feel what I knew was waiting for me inside that 20 second message.

Until Mothers Day.

My second without Max.

I walked outside of myself that day, determined to give my own mother a nice day. Tears forming in the corner of my eyes and a smile on my face I spent the most excruciating day of the year trying desperately not to break down.

It wasn't until I left her at home and I was in the sanctity of my car that I broke down.

Actually, it was more of a melt down than a breakdown.

It was Mothers Day and I'm not anyone's mother. Not anymore.

In that moment I had to hear Max's voice...so I played it. The only way I will ever hear my sons voice again. Booming through my car speakers via bluetooth it was Max, loud and clear, like he was right next to me. 

Something in the casual nature of his voice, the way he cleared his throat at about 12 seconds in, the way his other line was beeping so he hurried to say goodbye but didn't forget to say I love you...it was pure Max. 

For the first time since he died I felt complete loss. It overwhelmed me. This emptiness, loneliness, extreme sadness, is this what they call grief?

I was feeling everything.

All at once.

Misery. 

This was pure misery and its been waiting for me since the day Max died.

I pulled into a parking lot and played that message 10 more times.

And I sobbed. 

Hidden behind the running events I do, the college courses I'm enrolled in, the house I'm remodeling, the three bulldogs that consume every spare minute I have and everything else I do...is the misery that I push aside every morning when I wake up.

Because I am miserable without my son.

I am functional. 

But I am miserable.

I keep myself extremely busy and it's strange to me that people see this as a sign of strength. That I am strong enough to keep moving forward.

It's not strength...it's weakness...because if I slow down I have to remember that Max is really gone so I do everything I can to push that thought out of my head every day. 

I've been struggling a great deal the past few weeks. I am agitated, tired, sad...

I want to be left alone and then I am lonely. I am grateful for the good friends in my life and I am angry that my son is gone. I am happy at how I am able to help others facing addiction issues, I am guilty that I wasn't able to help my own son.

This is my life. 

It is happy and it is sad.

It is the choice I make when I see the sun every day.

I can be happy or I can be sad or, like most of my days, I can be both. 

Surviving my Son's Addiction

At any minute it can all change…an addict can stop using and an addict can start using…this irrefutable fact means that if you love an addict you are exhausted....


In the past several weeks I have been contacted by several parents about their child’s drug abuse.

I won’t lie. I have wondered why they would contact me. After all, my son died from overdose…I’m not exactly a shining example of what to do to save your child.

Or am I?

What I realized after talking at length with these struggling moms and dads is that they aren’t reaching out to me thinking about the fact that my son lost his battle with addiction.

They are reaching out to me because I survived it.

I had the strength to somehow differentiate Max from “drug” Max, (because they are two different people) and separate myself from one version of my son while still loving the other.

Sometimes I fear that in doing that I have done irreversible damage to myself…because my son is gone and sometimes I don’t miss him.

Perhaps that seems harsh or cold or completely obscene to you. If it does then I venture to say you have never loved an addict.

Don’t misunderstand…sometimes I miss Max so much I find it difficult to even breath. I have to push thoughts of him out of my mind in order to just get through the day. 

It is drug Max that I don’t miss.

Drug Max consumed my life.

That is the struggle that parents of an addict face.

Their lives are consumed by drug addiction.

They aren’t reaching out to me for answers or advice, they are simply reaching out to me because I understand what they are living with. I was intimately involved with the same monster that has taken hold of their children and I know what it is to feel powerless when that monster comes. 

I have sat up too many nights to remember, wondering if tonight would be the night that I got “the” call. 

I have turned my ringer up all the way to make sure I heard the phone if it rang in the middle of the night.

I have also turned my ringer off…to make sure I didn’t hear it ring in the middle of the night.

I have been there. And it is an ugly place to be.

One mom that called me asked that I call her son and see what I thought about what he had to say. Her son, let’s call him John, grew up with my son. They played football together, went to school dances, fought over the same girl…they were as close as any two teenage boys could be.

He sleeps with my son’s photos on his nightstand…

And he has started using again.

Well, she thinks he is using again…

(Any parent of an addict knows when their child is using…they just don’t want to believe it. I am here to tell you that if you think your child is using, then they are using. They are looking right in your eyes and lying to you…deep down you know the truth. Trust yourself.)

So I called John. His rational explanation for the xanax his mom found and the money that he had “lost” made me feel like I was hearing Max all over again.

I love John. I’m not here to judge him. I’m not here to save him. I’m just here…and that’s what I told him.

It’s the same thing I told the daughter of a dad that called me back in November because he thought his daughter might be using again.

The second I saw her I saw it in her eyes. She was at work, functioning, happy…and high.

The high never lasts though. So I told her what I told John. I’m here. I understand. There are people that love you…and eventually you are going to have to stop and feel everything that you are trying to avoid feeling now.

That was November…today is April 2^nd and today she is 27 days sober.

Here is the irony in these two stories…the dad of the girl who is 27 days sober is not worried one bit less about his daughter than John’s mom is worried about John.

Sobriety doesn’t mean you are cured. Sobriety doesn’t mean everything is good now so go live your life. It just means that today, in this minute, you are sober.

Addiction is a minute by minute disease. At any minute it can all change…an addict can stop using and an addict can start using…this irrefutable fact means that if you love an addict you are exhausted.

Just tired…both the mom and dad I mention here said the same thing, they are just plain tired.

They called me because they know I understand that type of exhaustion. They called me because they knew Max, they know me, and they know that judgment doesn’t live here.

They called me…

Even though Max lost his battle, they feel I have won mine. Because somehow in the pain, the exhaustion, and the grief, I continue to move forward, day by day, minute by minute…I move forward. 

Max wouldn't want it any other way.

This Girl

“I am torn open, unabridged, hot and a bit crazy inside. This is the feeling which belongs to me, she has always been mine.” 
― Coco J. Ginger


Sometimes the world opens up and offers you the people and the things that you need, even if you just don't know it yet. They may come into our lives briefly and then re-enter later when we least expect it. It is as if the universe has aligned just for you and, even if just for a moment, we know they are in our life for a reason.
I don't believe in coincidence. I don't believe that things just happen at the right time or right place or with the right person. 
I believe that there is meaning in everything that happens to us. I call them life lessons, you may know them as fate or destiny. Whatever your thought, if you are open minded enough to look for life's signs, then I believe you will become exactly who you are meant to be. You will love who you are meant to love and you will find a peace within yourself that no person could ever undermine.

I have had some time away from writing this last month and I have discovered that without the opportunity to write down my life I sometimes pause and wonder if it really even exists. As a writer I tend to mentally write introductory paragraphs about my life whenever anything of interest occurs. If my life were a movie it would be the narrative that played in the background while the main character walked through the scene. I've done this my entire life. I suppose that in some strange way it is my way of viewing my life from an unbiased perspective. 
It sounds something like this...'She can hear the text message alert calling her from another room, but she walks away from it...there is no point in looking to see who it's from, because he is gone...her son is gone. He cannot text her anymore...'
Or when I walk my dogs the narrative will start...'She walks alone but for her 4 legged companions. On a beautiful spring night she walks alone, because to walk with anyone else would be wrong...they would expect joy in this walk and there is none. Like food fuels your body, her dogs fuel her existence...'
Tonight my introductory paragraph would be something like this, 'She isn't who everyone thinks she is. She is falling in love. She is finding happiness where it shouldn't be found and not one bit of her can walk away from it. No, not one bit of her wants to walk away from it. This girl, who has lost so much in her life, is beginning to feel something again. This girl misses her son so much today that her breaths are hollow and her eyes are empty, but she is feeling it...really feeling it...she has to. Without feeling the pain, she couldn't feel the love that has entered her life. And for this girl, that is a love worth feeling pain over...because this love makes her warm again. This love makes her smile again...

Headed in the Right Direction

35 days after the death of my son I found my way to a grief group for bereaved parents.

As I have mentioned in previous blog entries, almost immediately after Max died I began to research death. During one online search I came across some uplifting quotes and followed their link to a website, The Compassionate Friends.

The Compassionate Friends is a world wide group of parents that have lived through the unimaginable, the death of their child. I looked through the site and saw that there was a chapter located fairly close to my home that met on the second Wednesday of every month.

I made a mental note of this and continued my quest for information on the afterlife. At that time I didn’t feel that I needed any more ‘compassionate friends’…this was a mere week or two after Max’s death and I was surrounded by friends, all of them very compassionate.

About 3 weeks later I was sent advice from a Facebook friend that had lost her son years earlier. The advice was a link to The Compassionate Friends site with a short note letting me know that I wasn’t alone.

I recognized the site and decided to put the upcoming meeting into my calendar, thinking that if I was feeling up to it when the time came, perhaps I would go.

A week later, my phone chimed letting me know that the meeting was in 2 hours. I didn’t feel much like going. I didn’t know what to expect and I didn’t have anyone to go with me. Max’s step dad is a textbook example of someone who internalizes everything so the idea of him discussing grief with strangers was out of the question. My parents weren’t really a viable choice because they were in such a dark place over losing Max that the entire event would have turned into something for them instead of something for me.

As I debated this I went back to my computer and read Max’s Facebook page. 

I couldn’t bear it.

The comments.

The photos that had been posted.

The dreaded RIP posts.

My heart was ripped from my chest. I began gasping for air. Not crying, just finding it impossible to breath.

Max had died???

Max had died.

If there were other people that had survived what I was feeling then I had to meet them.

About 5 minutes into the 20 minute drive a black 4 door Honda Civic with tinted windows and black rims sped past me.

A replica of the car that Max once drove.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of it.

This car led me to my exit, turned right just before I did, and while I was looking left to make sure I was clear to turn, it disappeared.

It could have gone into the gas station that was just up ahead, or turned onto the only street that was anywhere close to the freeway off ramp.

Or it could have been Max, guiding me to exactly where he wanted me to be...

Because that night I met a woman who is now one of my closest friends and was given the name and number for a psychic medium who would, eventually, save my life.

They asked me at the meeting that night how I came to find the organization and I mentioned the website and my Facebook friend.

I thought that if I mentioned the car that I had essentially followed to the meeting that they would think I was nuts. Hell, even I thought it was just a crazy coincidence.

Since then I have enjoyed two Worldwide Candle Lighting ceremonies, one National Convention and numerous meetings with The Compassionate Friends Organization. I have met amazing parents who have lost their children to cancer, overdose, heart irregularities, gun shots, suicide, murder…they have lost infants, teenagers, adults…with one thing in common, they are a parent that has survived the death of their child.

And in some strange way they are my people now.

I have never been judged in the sanctity of a meeting because my son died from overdose. I have never been made to feel like my loss was less than another’s because of the circumstances revolving his death.

And moreover, if asked today how I came to find The Compassionate Friends Organization, I have been given the strength to smile and say...Max led me there.

Let Faith Guide You

"Those we love don't go away, 
They walk beside us everyday,
Unseen, unheard, but always near,
Still loved, still missed and very dear."

Right after my son died I told my sister that I didn't feel like he had "crossed over".
I didn't have a moment where I felt him die. 
I had always heard people say that they just knew when their loved one passed away. Not only did that moment not happen for me, but I had an overwhelming feeling that he was "stuck" between this world and "the light".
Please know that I am an extremely rational person. 
Yet there was a very unsettling way that I felt right after Max died. 
So I did what any rational, grieving mother would do and I began to read everything I could about the afterlife. I HAD TO KNOW where Max was.
Surprisingly, every book I read, from numerous different authors, all described death very much the same way. 
Death, you see, is simply going home.
This body that we are in is simply a shell that we walk away from...our life force, our spirit, our energy...it never dies. Yet I couldn't shake the feeling that Max was not where he was suppose to be. I guess I felt that he was in 'limbo', unsure of where he was, not comprehending the fact that he was no longer a part of this world.
Again, I am a rational person...this wasn't something I was going around screaming from the rooftops. I felt strange even saying it out loud to my sister. 
Then, about 2 weeks after Max died, I had a dream that confirmed my feeling. 
In my dream Max was very confused and different 'energy' was pulling him in every direction. Some of the energy was very dark, some was very calming. What was prevalent throughout the dream, however, was Max's confusion.
When I awoke the next day I remembered every detail of the dream. 
Rationally you would say this is transference. I was thinking it subconsciously, so I dreamt about it.
You can rationalize anything away. 
So that's what I did. 
I didn't mention the dream to anyone and tried to let go of the gnawing feeling that had been choking me since the day Max died.
Then 2 nights later I had the most vivid dream I have ever had.
Max was sitting at the dining room table and he and I were having everyday conversation. I was very aware in the dream that Max had died and eventually I told him that he had to go into the light.
He was furious.
He denied being dead with all the verver that he once used to deny he was doing drugs. I went to him, put a hand on his shoulder and I told him that I knew about the drugs in Utah. 
He hung his head, embarrassed that he had been 'found out'. I again told him that he had to go into the light. He stood up and asked me if he'd ever see me again. I told him that I believed he would see me again, that people we are close to on earth are together on the other side. I told him that Baxter, his old yellow lab, was probably waiting for him as we spoke. 
Max hugged me then and told me he was afraid to go alone.
The next thing I knew Max and I were in a tunnel and when we arrived at the end of it we knew we had to find out where he belonged. At first we traveled together but as he became more comfortable he ventured out on his own. I then heard a booming voice, although I don't remember what it said, and I knew I had to leave. As I arrived back at the tunnel Max appeared with another "energy". He explained to me that this energy was like a brother to him. All of the calmness you could ever imagine was surrounding Max now. He shared with me a universal understanding that he now had. Everything made perfect sense. To both of us.
Then Max hugged me, and said in my ear, "I'll see you soon"...
And with that he and the 'brotherly' energy that he had brought with him to bid me farewell, turned and began to leave.
Max glanced back, just once, waved and smiled as only Max could, and I stood and watched him as the tunnel closed in around me.
You can say this is just a grieving mother who wanted to dream this.
Or you can say I am not nearly as rational as I think I am.
What I KNOW is that when I awoke from this dream I no longer felt like Max was "stuck". I knew instantly that I had helped him cross over. My inner turmoil was at rest. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Max was finally where he was suppose to be.
I am telling you this very personal experience because sometimes things just aren't rational.
Sometimes you just need to have faith in what you feel. 
When you lose a loved one here in the physical world it does not mean that they are not still very much around you.
Over the next several blogs I am going to share some moments that I have had since Max died that I hope will comfort you, the way they have me, and begin to help you believe that NO, you aren't crazy!
Max communicates with me constantly. 
Keep your eyes open...I bet your loved one is communicating with you too.
So try and give your rational side a break, ok? Let faith guide you for awhile.

Judging Addiction

"People inspire you or they drain you, choose them wisely." -Hans F Hanson

I came across this picture as I was browsing Houzz (if you aren't familiar with this home decorator app/website you are truly missing out) and I couldn't help but literally laugh out loud.
It is the proverbial glass house.
It is where they live...you know who I mean...the 'friends' and relatives and everyone else that judge us.
As the parent of an addict I have had to learn to accept the judgement of others who think it was my parenting that caused my son to use drugs. If it was their child then they would have dealt with it differently you see...they would have 'fixed' the situation.
I have walked through the whispers and lived through the shame.
Hell in the beginning I blamed myself too, often taking the time to defend myself and my son.
Yep, there I was at high school sporting events trying to explain why my son was an addict.
Now can you stop and imagine someone trying to explain why their child has cancer? Or juvenile diabetes?

I have a friend, at one time my very best friend, who stands on the other side of the addiction debate.
Is addiction a disease or a choice?
She thinks it's a choice.
Her absence at my sons memorial service solidified her stance.
This is a woman who knows me...she knew my son when he was a toddler...she was my BEST FRIEND.
Until judgement day came.
Then she climbed the nearest pedestal, wrapped herself and her children in perfection, and JUDGED ME.
Her children lead a 'normal' life she told me. (I just wonder if they know they live in a glass house...)

Everyone is entitled to their opinion about addiction. Many addicts will even tell you that addiction is a choice...and maybe for them it is.
I am not here to discuss neuroscience, brain cognition or the genetics of an addict. What I can say for certain is this...living with an addiction is a very loathsome way to live, and dying from addiction is a very tragic way to die. If given the 'choice' why would anyone choose addiction? If death by disease was inevitable and you had to choose your method of dying why not choose a disease that creates sorrow and pity in the eyes of others?
In essence, why not make yourself judgement proof?
That's what I would do.

I never asked my friend her definition of normal, although I wanted to. In fact, that last text message from her still sits on my phone, like a flashing red light, to remind me how far I have come and how stuck she remains. Because you see, when you jump on a pedestal you might have a great view of everyone around you, but you leave very little room for yourself to move.
That is how I see her now.
On a 12x12 pedestal, in her glass house, stuck in her own perfection.
Imagine the pressure?
To live that 'normally'...

To put it simply, "Life is too short to spend with people that suck the life out of you."

Eventually glass houses shatter, and from what I understand, it's usually from the inside out...

The Hope in Starting Over

"For what it's worth; it's never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There's no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you're proud of...and if you find that you're not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again."

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

Life is full of moments.
And it is somewhere within these moments that we begin to define ourselves.

When my son was 17 and struggling with sobriety I made some life altering decisions. I ended my marriage, left my career and began searching for something to be passionate about. 
Like Alice must have felt when she landed in Wonderland. I had no idea where I was, who I was or where the hell I was going.
This is when it hit me. I was completely alone.
Max was fighting for freedom and I was...tired.
Any family that has been immersed into the disease of addiction knows that eventually the disease plays out.
You have no control. 

I was 37 when I realized that I had no control over the way my son would choose to live his life. 

I had raised him right. 

He knew the difference between good and evil and I had given him the tools he needed to battle his disease. 

In finding myself I knew that I would have to begin to let him go. 

In order to find my way, he was going to have to find his. 

This realization didn’t come easy. Even now, years later, I have to find solace in the fact that I never let go of my son, I simply had to step aside and allow him to become a man. 

Since I became a mom at 19 years old I didn’t even remember much about my life before my son was born. Stepping aside, allowing him to create his own life path, meant that I had to seek out a completely different identity for myself. Still a mother, I tried desperately to separate myself from Max's disease. Those efforts, however futile, began to define the person I am today...in those moments perhaps, is when I built the strength to survive the eventual death of my son.

I am one of the few people that I have met that say they don't feel guilty that their child died from the disease of addiction. I know, with every ounce of my being, that I gave every bit of my soul into getting Max sober. As any parent would, I put much more energy into his life then I did my own. 

When Max was sober he would fill a room with his laughter and over abundance of charm....

But when drug Max took over he would suck the life out of a room so quickly you were left breathless and bewildered. 

His energy was stronger than anyone I have ever known. He was like a tornado, exploding into a room and consuming all those around him.

Some times this was good.

Other times this was extremely bad.

This is why, shortly after his death, I had a friend say something to me that I wasn't offended or upset by in any way.

In fact, I was somewhat inspired.

She said, "Maybe Max had to die so that you could begin to live..."

I consider this to be the most defining moment in my life thus far.

Addiction is a family disease and it had consumed my family for so long that there simply had been no way to live a life separate of it.

Sure, I had tried...I knew in my head that I had to let go and let Max find his way...but my heart? 

Well, your heart never let's go does it? 

When your loved one is lost in this disease there is simply no other life for you to live but the life they bring you, the tornado they capture you in.

My life is forever changed because of addiction.

I have lost the only thing that I ever truly loved. 

My son.

But...in an effort to "begin to live" as my friend suggested, I have met amazing people. 

I have found calm in the presence of other bereaved parents. 

I have found strength in the unity of all of us that grieve for what we have lost. 

I have found the courage to sit and write about the stigma of addiction.

I have found inspiration through the recovery of addicts that fight their demons every minute of every day. 

Finally, I am learning to find myself...

I realize that seeking a new path, reinventing myself, isn’t something that I alone have set out to do. 

It is because of this that I have decided to share my moments. 

You see, I am just like you, grieving for what should have been, scared about what comes next and lost and alone in the places that were once so familiar.

For what it's worth, the only difference between you and I is probably the fact that I am crazy enough to write about it...