It Will Help

When my children fell, I fell with them. When they were in despair, I despaired too. I

stayed awake many nights worried. I talked about them constantly. I stopped writing,

exercising, enjoying time with my spouse and my forgotten child. I stopped my joy. I tossed

out my friends, trudged through work, ready to bolt at any time, that they needed me. I

jumped when they called in the middle of the night. I went to get them wherever they

were. I released everyone from my life that did not see the urgency—did not want to

“fix” them with me.

My kids had a dependency that twisted their brains. They said I was horrible, not a

good mother, not a good person. So, I tried to do better. They told me they wished they had

a different mom. So, I tried to be different and forgot my way back.

One day, they ran out of road and asked me to make them better. They went from

hating me to loving me--from cursing at me to telling me that I was the best mom in the

world. They went from running away from me, to leaning on me. They went to rehab, and I

said, “finally, just thirty days until they are better. In thirty days, we can start again.”

Clear, grateful, and humble, my children came home. I set up their lives for success. Bought

them a new wardrobe, helped them get back to their schools and their jobs. And when the

old jobs and schools no longer worked for them, I helped them find new jobs, and a

different way to do school. I wasn’t going to attend a high school graduation for either of

them. I grew to accept that. I stopped looking at the caps and gowns and celebrations of

their friends. It did me no good. Besides, my kids were better now. Just a little setback. Now

they are better.

But then they stopped being better. Their clear eyes became foggy—foggier than

before. Their humble turned to boast louder than before. Entitlement replaced their

gratitude, and they disappeared into the floorboards, screaming a muffled torture. I could

hear them, see them, but couldn’t know them. When they came back and begged for help.

I helped—drove them back to the place that was going to fix them. Sat in the waiting room

for hours, sometimes days. I didn’t sleep, eat, or stop, until they were safely inside, this

time getting better—for sure this time. But that wasn’t the time, not the next or even the

one after that.

One of the "thirty day" places, told me to do something. “Is it going to fix my kids?" I

asked.

“It will help.” They said, so I went where they told me to go. Did what they said to do.

I went back even when I didn’t want to—even when it wasn’t working. I sat in chairs in a

circle, with other Moms and Dads. Some of their kids were getting better, so I stayed. Some

of their kids weren’t getting better, and what I didn’t understand about them, was how,

while their kids were out there falling deeper away from themselves, their parents were

sleeping at night, going out to lunch with friends. They were going on dates with their

partners, taking up whole new hobbies. I didn’t understand why they weren’t crying and

restless. Didn’t they know their kids could die? Was that really the time to go on a trip and

scuba dive for the first time? I mean, really. They were happier than they should have been.

But I tried not to judge. It wasn’t my place. I had my own way of doing things. I must just

love my kids more, I thought. I must have more grit, I thought. That’s all that it was.

They talked about years, sometimes decades of this. Mine wasn’t going to last

decades, I thought. This will get better soon. But “soon” slipped away again and again and

again and again. On one of those “agains", after fighting with the insurance company—after

begging for one more scholarship, because this would be the time they got better, “Yes, I

know we just took a scholarship last time, but please, I will do anything to save my child.”

I got the “one more time” and one after that too. I was so tired though, and didn’t know

how much more "agains" I had in me.

I sat in the circle and shared my feelings. I told them I was broken and tired, and

they told me it was OK. I told them I still didn’t fix my kids, and they told me that was OK

too.

The next time I sat in the circle, I didn’t talk about my kids. But didn’t realize it until

another parent pointed it out. I thought I should feel guilt, but that time I didn’t. I

felt grateful to be sitting in a circle among Moms and Dads who wanted the same things for

their kids, that I wanted for mine. I looked into their eyes, and understood that their

children were my mine, and my children were theirs. The clarity, humility, and gratitude I

longed for had arrived in me.

They had been saying it all along, but I didn’t hear it. I wasn’t listening.

We have been where you are, they said. And we won’t let you go. I promise you will find joy,

they said.

Even when my kids are “out there?” I asked.

Yes. They said Even then.

We will show you again and again and again and again, that although we can’t fix

you, we can show you the way. We can share our stories, a cup of coffee, and a walk in

nature. We can dance and laugh, and hold you when you lose hope, because sometimes

we do too. We will show you how we pick hope back up and place it in our own

hearts. We will show you how. But we will not fix you because you are not broken. You

will come to know that you will never fix your kids, it’s not possible. It was never your

battle, anyway.

Your battle is with yourself. It always was.

And I understood. And I came to understand again and again. And even again some

more.

One night, a new parent walked into the room of chairs in a circle. She looked tired. I

walked over to greet her.

“Is this going to fix my kids?” she asked

“It will help.” I said