Recovery is messy.

I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no way around it. No matter what kind of recovery you are dealing with, it always has bumps and lumps and curve balls. Kind of like looking at yourself in a distorted mirror; the ‘you’ you are expecting to see is not the ‘you’ you do see. The distortion can sometimes be funny, sometimes curious, sometimes sad and a bit deflating, and then hope – knowing that this is a distorted image and the end goal is to get back to a ‘normal’ state of health, mind or strength.

Recovery isn’t binary. It isn’t either/or; black or white; dark or light. It is many faceted, especially when there is more than just one person involved. Like an entire family.

These are just my opinions, my musings, what we have found. Or rather, what I have found.

There are times when we are able to share a laugh, make a joke or jab at things over the past few years. Lately, our road to recovery doesn’t look like a road at all. It looks more like a handful of cooked spaghetti noodles dropped onto the counter from a great height. It’s hard. It’s darn hard.

There’s four of us and that means four roads with many different stop signs, yield signs, all placed differently depending on where we are at on any given day, or any given hour. We make decisions and have opinions that aren’t shared between us; we don’t agree on things and crucially, we don’t agree on where each other is on their own road. Nor do we have consensus on how to manage as a collective.

Stay in your lane. Keep your eyes on your own road. Sounds simple. Enough said. Except it’s not simple and sometimes, there isn’t enough said. Also, we need to remember the dump truck on all four roads – trauma.

I can honestly say that the only time I am not overwhelmingly terrified is when my two adult children are asleep in their own beds. That is the only time I know for sure that they are not somewhere else or planning something that will trigger one of the many post-traumatic stress indicators that have latched themselves onto me over the past few years.

It’s kinda hard to breathe when you have that kind of boot on your throat.

‘I can’t go back. I can’t go back and do that again. I can’t. I won’t survive.’ These were clear statements from me, directed at my beautiful and amazing husband. The husband who, on his own road, and having to get up at 4:30 AM for another 12 hour work shift, got his weary body out of bed at midnight to help mediate between Robyn and I during a rather robust discussion.

She has bravely and painfully disassociated herself from most of her friends and scenes she was in while she was using. The rub is that she hasn’t turned her back to the extent where I think she should this early into her recovery, or at least to the point where would I feel comfortable. Because, of course, it’s all about me…….

It is, and it isn’t, and it is. The last few years have been like a horror movie; truly terrorizing. When I think of the times I spent in the hospital, in her apartment, alone in the car, alone at home in the middle of the night on my knees…… I start to feel anxious, my heartbeat increases. That desperate, hollow feeling comes back. I cry. Sometimes I cry alot. A. Lot. So I’m in this place where I haven’t even been able to deal with all of this trauma before I’m confronted with the fear that it may happen all over again. And I’m afraid it will happen all over again because I haven’t dealt with all of this trauma….. And then it bleeds, or hemorrhages, into other aspects of my life, like, my ability to be rational with our son who, really hasn’t done anything to deserve my suspect and suspicious ire.

So, everything outside of my control, or everything outside of what fits into my comfort zone, goes into the red alert zone. Immediately. To be fair to my stunning daughter, my red alert zone is big. Really big. If I’m honest with myself, there is precious little she can do that fits into my comfort zone. Work, dance, creating at home, having a few of her friends (the ones I like), over here. Yup. That pretty much covers it. Everything else to me is red alert zone territory.

There is huge consensus with addictions professionals that relapse is almost a given on the road to recovery. I can’t even say that out loud. My body won’t let me. Instead I say – I can’t. I can’t go back there. I won’t survive. My fixation on preventing her relapse is sometimes irrational, unhealthy and intense. Or is it? I let go before….. and look where that ended. The lucid me would reword that statement. I’m not reasonable right now. I can’t bring myself to agree with Robyn that ‘mom, it’s okay, I don’t even want to drink or do anything like that when I’m out with my friends.’

In my mind, it’s okay until it isn’t. She’s been very patient and tolerant with me. But also quietly insistent on things she feels are in her comfort zone are there to stay until she decides otherwise, regardless of where they are for me.

The size of my red alert zone is not fair. It’s not reasonable or rational. But trauma doesn’t give out reasonable and rational passes for free. You have to pay and the cost is high. It’s hard. It’s darn hard.

Someone our daughter grew up with recently got engaged. I am ecstatic for them, I really am. Having the benefit of a few days of hindsight, it is curious to me how my most recent irrational rantings coincided with their announcement. It hit me on Sunday night. Even a joyous occasion can be a trigger to an exposed nerve. Tears flowed and flowed and flowed. How did this happen? Two children grew up together with the same set of values and beliefs. One set of parents are celebrating an engagement and the other set of parents are, well, writing this blog. As you can imagine, that just leads to a thicket bush full of self-blame, religion, inadequacies, comparison, etc, etc, etc.

Here’s the thing – Robyn is in a corvette and I’m in a horse-drawn carriage. We are going at different speeds. At points, to be accommodating, she slows down and I speed up, but not all the time. That causes frustration to boil over.

I know we will get there. God promised me my children would not know death; He’s made promises to Robyn too that she is hanging onto. But I’m here to say that sometimes it’s going to be messy, and I am just going to have to be okay with mess.