For the Love of an Addict

To love an addict is the most emotionally draining relationship to carry.
Do you know one?
A family member, friend, spouse, or a co-worker?
Are you one?
What's your part in the relationship?
Maybe your lucky enough to be an audience member. 
Fortunate, you only have to sit and pass your judgement on the act playing out in your distant vision.
Maybe you're the dealer or the drink provider, the devil himself.
Maybe you are simply the enabler who thinks they are helping, supporting.

The biggest question I ask myself multiple times a day is, "Am I enabling or supporting?".
I often wonder if they are one in the same.
Is it possible to even be supportive without enabling?
Everyone's perspective of it is different.
What one views as being supportive can be viewed by another as being the enabler, and so the opposite also holds true.
It's definitely a Catch 22.
It's been a life long controversy in my head.
I've never put it on paper, never talked about it with another human, and never asked about it.
Just sat and argued with myself in the corners of my day and cried.
I've been lectured about it, but never asked how I feel about it or how I've lived with it.

I've carried on many conversations with the rising sun and the night sky about it.
Their beauty never gave me answers but always lifted my soul for a moment or two.
It got me through many days.
The thought of my loved ones always in the back of my head.
Often wondering how did they even get here?
How do they not love themselves enough when they obviously have so many that love them?
I never understood it.
How could I? I'm not an addict. I'm the enabler. The supporter. The comforter.
The one who doesn't get it.
The one sitting on the outside.

It's a burden to love, just as the addiction is a burden.
I wasted so much time trying to understand their choices.
Trying to be in their heads.
I never even had the urge to try any of it, how could I understand it?
So much energy wasted on the wondering and the what if's!
It is heartbreaking to know they don't love....couldn't love themselves enough to quit.
Their lives incomplete without it.
Like the need for a cup of coffee or a good book.
The need for their poison more important than anything or anyone in the physical world.
Maybe they were just waiting for death to come knocking.
Trust me, I'm not judging. Just thinking it through.
Still wasting time on wondering.



It hurts on this side (in case you wondered).
I've been raging mad, brought to my knees with sadness and cried tears that didn't matter.
I've spend much time in exhaustive worry.
Scared of the worst images my mind could conjure.
Overwhelmed with feelings one should not have to feel.
Conquered by the fear.
There is no winning here.
People just don't talk about it.

So, we've warned our children.
It's a dominant force in our lives.
They all know it's there and it's a risk to make this choice.
It could engulf them.
Or, as it was with me, it may not be appealing.
I pray this to be true.
I pray for them eternally that they won't know.
That they won't be the addict.
That they won't have to know the duties of the supportive enabler.

I've watched addiction. I've watched recovery. They are both a fight that never ends.

Have you ever listened to the tree's?

I sat, Indian style on the back deck paying special attention to the unseasonably warm November night, originally just wanting to gaze at the sky. I wasn't expecting the quick, engulfing dense fog or the heaviness of the moisture that began surrounding me. Comfortable in my sweatshirt & yoga pants, I never did catch a glimpse of the night sky. I could scarcely see the tree that was only 25 feet in front of me. It became eerily creepy on this fall night. The surrounding traffic noise was practically non-existent and my sense of hearing on heightened alert because of the rapid change in the visibility.

It became apparent that the trees, still heavy with leaves, were dropping them at a fairly quick rate. I can only assume it was because of the heaviness of the fog. The sound was a fairly relaxing beat, seemingly on purpose. You could here them floating to the ground one after another with pause between. Like a planned rhythm from the percussion's of a symphony. The largest tree on the right, the lead and the three smaller playing in from the left. Some floating to the roof, a heavier sound than those hitting the ground and then the swoosh of the leaves falling to the tarp covered play-set gliding eventually to the slide. Still noting the lack of visibility. I had a faint light coming from the kitchen window, but for the most part could no longer see the path to the door. The fog even more dense now and the tree's apparently enjoying their song, were almost teasing me with their antics. I sat wishing I could witness the leaves sound creation but grateful to have experienced the synchronous vibration of the night. The one tree sitting bare of leaves (I'm sure feeling left out), with a double trunk that twists into each other,  joined in with a barely noticeable movement. Like the sound of an embrace that you would miss unless you were truly paying attention. An appreciative sigh.

The chill eventually got to me and I meandered back to the house with a grateful grin and a calm heart, still listening as the tree's continued their song. I stepped inside, absorbing the warmth but longing to listen to the trees for eternity. 

Sandra Murdoch-Becker

Copyright November, 2015