*Jazz Hands* Mom

I have been giving myself a lot of time to think. And here are some things that I have figured out…either in my own head…or as I tried to write out what I was feeling to my counselor.

It’s all about people.

Like…I know this…it’s people that scare me. This isn’t new. But, there’s this other layer…

I’ve always said that, when I have my nightmares…it’s not a rehash of the events that happened. It’s my mother…taking everything away. “Everything”. That’s the word I always use. But…if I think about it…what she always takes away is people. I’ll have made amends with someone…she convinces them I’m no good. In my most vivid one ever, I was pregnant with twins. She brutally murdered them after they were born. I’ll be in a new relationship, she convinces them to run. I’ll make new friends, she convinces them I’m a terrible person and they leave.

Obviously just dreams, right? That’s what a normal person would probably tell me. But they’re not. This is the woman who called my ex husband the day we got engaged and told him not to marry me. “She’ll be a terrible wife and an awful mother.” This is the woman who went and sat at my work for 2 hours when I was younger and, with crocodile tears, sat there and lamented how her daughter hated her…I walked into work the next day and everyone despised me for “breaking my poor mother’s heart”. (Mind you, this was shortly after she denied me insurance coverage during a medical emergency because “oh I dropped you after you started all of your bullshit”.) This is the “mother” who bought braves tickets for an ex boyfriend I had to call the police on for harassment…to apologize for me being a bitch.

You get the point. Time after time after time…she has taken people away from me or attempted to.

So…when I go into a PTSD spiral…

Honestly? I have this HORRIBLE simultaneous feeling of wanting to run away and just wanting SOMEONE to care enough not to let me. My desperate wish is to be…enough…that people will love me enough to hear my tears. But at the same time I’m afraid to hope for such a thing because I never had it.

I’ve tried to figure out why this time is worse than it’s ever been.

1. Pretty sure the heart medication has something to do with that. No joke.

2. I never expected anyone to be there before. But I have a saying that’s always repeated in my head. “Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to believe.” If you don’t believe anyone is there, it doesn’t hurt when they’re not. But I started to believe. I started to believe I was enough for people…that I was loveable…that I was worth sticking around for. And…To be fair…I have some friends who love me very much. Or…parts of me. But not this part of me. And so they’re letting me run. Out of love for me. But…my counselor thinks I’m not telling them that it’s hurting me. That I’m pretty sure I could die this morning…and no one would notice until Bella gets home Sunday night. That I could say, “I think I’m going to end it.” and my friends would say, “If that’s what you think will make you feel better.” And that hurts because I’ve done my best to pull my friends out of their own darkness… And, as some of my friends may read this, I’m not blaming you. I’m trying to work out in my head exactly how broken I am…or if I’m really NOT communicating. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. Which sucks for a know it all. Lol

My daughter…well, her counselor has told me I’m her safe place. That she’s so mean to me sometimes because she’s angry and afraid, but she knows I’m the one person who won’t give up on her. I realized in the past week…Bella is MY safe place, too. She’s the person I can joke and laugh with no matter how much the rest of the world is falling apart. She’s the person that makes me want to be strong. She’s my light in the darkness. (She’s also the one who teases me (not incorrectly) that my friends know I’d never do anything to hurt myself because, “You’re too nice and you’d never want to inconvenience someone by leaving a mess for them to clean up”. 😆 )

So. Yeah. People. Apparently people are “everything” to my subconscious. Losing them is what wakes me up screaming. Being near them and not belonging is what breaks my heart. And there is one 15 year old person who may be my savior.

A few notes on this blog before I begin.

1. Don’t Google sugared shit. You’re welcome.

2. Remember I told you about 11th grade lit teacher, Mrs. Tatum? Thanks to that class, the word epiphany is my second favorite word. (First place will always go to voluptuous.) Mrs. Tatum walked into class one day and said, “I had an epiphany last night!!” At which point, smart-ass David Scott said, “Oh no! Did it hurt???”. And now every time I use or hear the word epiphany I giggle.

ANYWAY…I had an epiphany this morning!

My Friends and I joke that I’m silver linings girl. Given enough time I can find something positive in just about any situation.

But, to me, silver linings are a positive about the particular situation that isn’t positive on it’s own. For example, I was kidnapped. Fucking sucks. No denying it. But the silver lining is that, by being kidnapped, I’ve been able to help other kids (and adults) through their own trauma. I love being that person. So, there’s a direct correlation. Good from bad. Silver lining.

And then…there’s sugared shit.

Here’s my example of sugared shit:

3 days after my divorce was finalized (well over a decade ago) my brother got married at a destination wedding in Mexico.  I went. I honestly had a great time and ignored my own grief and celebrated my brother’s happiness. All the way through the days leading up to the wedding and the wedding itself. The next morning my family planned on going on a four wheeler excursion. I decided not to go. I needed some alone time to just feel. My dad got mad. To him that was wallowing and ruining everyone else’s good time. (Seriously, if you’ve ever been around me when I’m sad…TRUST ME…me being around you is what will ruin the good time.) His exact words were, “Oh just go buy some new eye shadow and be happy.” <~~~~~I present to you, “Sugared Shit”.

Sugared shit is faking happiness.

Sugared shit is saying, “I’m going to bury this thing that’s hurting me and not address it. I’ll be happy about other things instead.”

Sugared shit is not giving yourself time to actually process your feelings and FIND the positive that’s going to make it ACTUALLY ok.

Sugared shit leads to eventual emotional diarrhea….You push down all of these emotions…you pretend they aren’t there because, “Hey, I have other things to be happy about, right??”…and those emotions fester…and gurgle…and explode…and no one even knows why you exploded because, “Damn…she was so happy yesterday…I can’t think of anything that happened since then that set her off…” <~~~~~Because it happened 5 years ago but she tried to pour sugar on the shit instead of finding a positive that turned it into not shit.

In case you can’t tell, I can’t do sugared shit. I don’t even WANT to do sugared shit.

I want to process. I want to feel. I want to twist and turn the scenario around…until I can see that silver lining that’s peeking through.  That way, when I see it again in five years, I get to see my own smile reflected back at me in the beautiful polished silver sheen of true acceptance.

So, obviously…as I mentioned the other day…I’m in a PTSD spiral…and have come to realize there are still things from my past that I need to address.

So…I haven’t been able to connect with my therapist lately…I sent my psychiatrist an email this morning. I told him how I really feel and I asked him if he could give me a recommendation for a new therapist…one who specializes in complex trauma.

He responded and told me that he’s REALLY proud of me for recognizing what’s happening and seeking help…and that most people wouldn’t. So, that part was nice. lol

The one person he could recommend hasn’t gotten back to me. But I did reach out to this TalkSpace thing that I have available to me through work. Therapists that you can see virtually and even have email correspondence. I signed up…I got paired to a therapist…their intake form asked about my trauma and what has been happening recently to set it off…

Y’all…I WROTE. And WROTE. And WROTE. It wasn’t even until I was mid-explaining the last 7 months that I realized how fully triggered I’ve been and how much I’ve really been trying to handle.

And now…all I can picture is this therapist getting this message and her jaw dropping wider and wider…(which will actually be a nice change from actually having to WATCH that happen whenever I try a new therapist in person…lol).

Sooooo…either the men in the white coats are going to be knocking on my door soon or I’m actually going to get to talk to someone.

Wish me luck…

If you’ve known me for even a day, one of the first things you learned about me is probably how important I think words are.

Words can build a friendship.

Words can make us fall in love.

Words can break our hearts.

Words can build us up or tear us down.

Words are healing.

But, mostly, words are hope.

Whether it be prose or lyrics or any formation of words…

Words are proof that someone else has been where we are, felt what we feel, survived it, and thrived enough to write it down.

Words have the power to prove to us that we’re not alone. Words are proof that someone out there understands.

I know this. I say this often. I try to live what I preach by sharing these words and the feelings that inspire them. I try to show people that they aren’t alone and that it’s ok to be vulnerable.

This has formed some of the most amazing relationships of my life as I’ve, subsequently, found myself surrounded by people who understand and seek understanding.

But then…there’s the other side. The people who dislike my words. To them:

Words are attention seeking.

Words are pitiful and weak.

Deep words should be buried and only happiness and joy should be communicated.

Words mean you refuse to heal.

For those who feel (or are) responsible for our painful words, words are an accusation that must be silenced.

And, so, even knowing the importance of words….I sometimes silence myself. I share some things, but I swallow most. Or I type type type…delete delete delete.

I hear a family motto on refrain in my head. “Don’t cry. No one cares.”

Here’s the thing…when I’m sharing my words…that is the moment I’m least likely to cry. It’s cleansing. It’s strength to be able to acknowledge and face the good and the bad in life.

I actually think it might be my best quality. A gift from God that helps me bring a little light into the dark.

So, I’m going to stop hiding my words. Which sounds funny coming from a blogger. “You write all the time.”

Yes, but…every blog I write comes with a bit of fear of rejection. Do I sound crazy? Do I seem attention seeking? Am I going to make anyone mad? Will anyone understand?

Don’t write that. No one cares.

But this morning it really hit me.

I. Don’t. Care.

This is my blog. My world. Let it be ignored or judged by those who don’t like it or me. (And, honestly, feel pity on them that they’re wasting their time consistently reading and judging something they don’t like. How miserable is that?)

And let it be hope for those who have been where I am or have been.

And…as I have finally decided to start addressing my own demons of having a borderline parent…let it be healing for ME as I sometimes use this space to get those thoughts out of the swirling mass in my brain.

Because that’s the biggest thing I’ve realized. This drowning feeling I’ve had? I’ve been drowning under the weight of words that I felt like no one wanted me to share.

As of today, I don’t care. Just call me Sheri the Share Bear. (Oh yeah…I went there…😆)

I’ve always been someone who thinks a little outside of the box. One of my favorite real life illustrations of this happened when I was in 11th grade and…Lord…I pissed Mrs. Tatum off. Mrs. Tatum was my AP Lit teacher. She assigned us a paper…

“What Color Are You and Why?”

Of course, most kids stuck to what was expected. “I’m green, because I love nature.” “I’m blue because I’m calm and tranquil.” Those who had studied more psych might have thrown a slight curveball with, “I’m orange, because I’m really hungry right now.”

And then there was me…

“I’m Hazel. Because I change consistently. ”

I remember Mrs. Tatum reading my first draft and telling me I couldn’t be Hazel because it wasn’t a real color.

“They put it on driver’s licenses as an eye color. It’s a LEGAL color.”

After sputtering and mumbling she let it go. (I should probably mention this was the same teacher that nominated me for English Governors Honors…and then told me that my poetry submission had a childish rhythm…at which point I told her (and proved) that I wrote with the same style as Emily Dickenson…one of history’s greatest poets…who’s every poem could be sung to the tune of the Gilligan’s Island theme song…Mrs. Tatum didn’t like me.)

Anyway, I digress. After shushing her arguments…I wrote my paper. Two pages on why I refused to assign myself as only one color.

Some days I’m happy.

Some days I’m sad.

Some days I’m angry.

Some days I’m shy and some days I won’t shut up.

Some days I dream of adventure and some days I dream of hiding away from the world.

I am not blue. I am not green. I am not even white (the presence of all colors).

I am Hazel. I change. Every day. We all do. We are ALL multifaceted.

Which is why I have always hated when people use the words, “You’ve changed”.

First, let me start by saying…the words, “You’ve changed” are never meant as a positive. When people mean it as a positive they say, “You’ve grown”. When people say, “You’ve changed,” what they really mean is, “You’re not being the person that I am comfortable with and I wish you’d go back.” In other words, “You’re orange lately and I really don’t like the way orange makes me feel, so I really hope you’ll stop being orange so I can be comfortable again.”

But it doesn’t work like that.

Some days the experiences we’re “wearing” change our Hazel to blue.

Some days we’re wearing the struggle of self doubt and envy and we take on a tinge of green.

Some days the only clothes we can find are the epitome of life being shitty…and our Hazel looks brown.

But it hasn’t changed the fact that we’re still Hazel. We’re going to be all those colors again. We change with life’s wardrobe, and that’s ok. That’s HUMAN.

So…the next time you think that your loved one has changed…maybe instead of saying that to them (which sounds like they’re failing you)…maybe look at their wardrobe…and decide if it’s just their outfit of the day…or if maybe they could use a little help finding something new to wear. Be the person who adds more color to their life instead of someone who insists on eradicating the colors that make them feel uncomfortable.

And maybe they’ll do the same for the Hazel in you.

In the irony of ironies, when we struggle most with feeling alone…sometimes we really need to BE alone. That is the beginning of the clarity that I found today. It is also intertwined in every other bit of clarity and peace I have found.

It all goes back to trauma. It all centers on the fact that I have C-PTSD. I will admit that I do to others, but I fight the label in my own head and heart. I don’t want to be different. I don’t want to feel differently…see things differently…love differently…and need to be loved differently. And yet, I do. No matter how much I fight the label…it is part of who I am.

So, why do I try to fight it? That’s easy. Shame. Shame is the tie that truly binds those who have lived through trauma. Any trauma….but maybe even moreso with a complex trauma…a trauma that wasn’t a one time event, but was perpetuated upon the victim for years. I actually did a little research into shame and PTSD and found this

“When someone has shame, they are hurting themselves internally, blaming themselves for the events that caused their PTSD and the transgressions committed against themselves.”

Makes no sense right? Why in the world would someone feel shame and blame themselves for someone else hurting them? There could be many reasons. Maybe they feel like the events leading up to it were their fault somehow. Maybe they believe that there’s something inherently wrong with them that made them deserve to be hurt. Maybe they blame themselves for not running sooner. Maybe the shame comes from people telling them they should be healed and forget it ever happened…even though their heart tells them that’s not possible. Maybe…if they’re like me…they’ve always known that they were the common denominator in the various people that hurt them…so they must be the problem.

Whatever it is…shame teaches us to be alone. To hide. To believe that there is something broken within us that makes us unlovable and unworthy.

And, so, many of us learn to wear solitude like a protective armor. If we don’t let anyone in, they won’t know our shame. If we don’t tell them how much we hurt, they won’t judge us for not being ok. If we don’t show them our weakness, we can’t be abused again. And mostly…

If we CHOOSE to be alone, then we are in control of our own hearts, minds and feelings.

Control of ourselves is probably one of the most sought after feelings for someone who’s life was torn apart by something outside of their control.

And THAT is the hallmark of C-PTSD. Complex PTSD. PTSD from a nightmare that was out of our control and wouldn’t end.

Anyway, back to the alone part. And now I will only speak for myself.

For Me: I got really good at being alone. I had my woods and my music and my books. Those things that never hurt me. When the past came back to haunt me, only I knew. When there was a trigger that caused me to be afraid and ready to run, only I knew. When I felt like everything was flooding, only I knew. That may sound terrible to most, but to someone who was struggling with shame? SO MUCH BETTER than letting others see me break.

Then I found people. Amazing people. Wonderful people. People who want me to lean on them. People who want to support me. And I thought I could do it. Hear me out, I’m not saying I can’t…I just thought I could EASILY do it. I thought, “Wow! This is awesome! What a blessing that I have these people who just want to love me!”

But the shame lived on. I did my usual thing that most people never catch onto. I tell people so much that they never question what I’m not telling them. I tell them when I’ve had nightmares, but maybe I leave out how I woke up screaming and with tears streaming down my face. I tell them when I’ve had a trigger, but…quite honestly I couldn’t explain that fear to someone even if I wanted to…so I share a watered down version of it. I admit that I’m sad or angry or scared or feeling alone, but…

I keep it inside because I’m ashamed. I stay alone with my shame. And because of my shame I further find myself alone.

So…what happens after decades of that? We learn to be really good at being alone.

People are scary when it’s people who have hurt you. People can rip the floor right out from under you. People can decide you’re too broken to love. People can decide you’re dramatic because they can’t understand what built you. People can decide you aren’t worthy. I say people, but in reality it only takes one.

It only takes knowing that ONE person told one other person that they don’t like you. It only takes ONE person walking away from you because you’re “too much”. It only takes ONE person telling you that you’re broken. That one person, in your mind, becomes everyone…because your shame tells you that they’re right.

So, for me…I went into this spiral. Because as I tried to come out of my solitude…I also have now had about 7.5 months of…let’s just be honest…really fucking shitty luck in a lot of aspects of my life. October – Sexual Harassment. December – Having a complete stranger track me down regarding my traumatic event and publishing my life on a website. Later December – Broken Leg. January – Broken Leg. February – Broken Leg. (You get the point, my leg is still not healing.) Then came the heart problem that I’ve been trying to navigate and the fear that comes there. And now…only a few people know this, but…my abusers sold my childhood home and now I don’t know where they are. They could be anywhere. Through some research, we think we have it narrowed down…but not 100% sure…and that is still local. I can’t even begin to explain to you how scared I am to be in a crowd at this moment. Yesterday, I cried…at a 5k…because I was so overwhelmed by the PEOPLE and until I feel safe again…people are overwhelming and terrifying because any one of those people could be the people who want to hurt me.

And even as I type that, I’m ashamed. Why? Why am I so ashamed by that fear? Because so few people would understand and will only see me being dramatic. I’m glad they can’t understand. But the shame puts me back to being alone.

So, now I go back to the beginning. My being alone and why that’s actually been a good thing.

When you only know “alone”…when that is how you’re used to dealing with things…that spiral that can happen when you’re hurt because you’re feeling misunderstood by even one person…It’s really hard to stop feeling that when you’re still surrounded by people. It builds…and builds…and builds…until you begin to feel like you can’t be loved by anyone and the world is better off without you.

That’s where I was at last night. I have never so badly wished that it would all just end.

So, I withdrew.

I canceled plans. I shut my phone off. I leaned into the solitude.

I allowed myself to feel. I allowed myself to think. I wrote.

I spent time with my daughter and laughed over silly things.

I cried.

I let myself feel everything I’ve been trying to deny out of shame…out of fear of being misunderstood.

And, for the first time in months, I feel this sense of peace. I feel back in control of my own emotions because I’m not letting them be led by what others are (or might) be thinking.

I love my friends. Seriously, they have become my family and I would move heaven and earth to help any single one of them. And I do know that many of them feel the same about me. But…because the reality of my life has been that I have been alone…I think I need to accept that SOMETIMES (not all the time, but sometimes) I’m going to need to REALLY take time to be alone to sort my feelings out.

And I have to do it without feeling ashamed of needing that space.

So…things still are what they are. Tomorrow I still have to deal with the things that I’ve been dealing with. They aren’t going away. Therefore, the fear and worry are also not going away. But I can handle them…as long as I remember that I’m not broken…that I am not the one who traumatized myself…that I am stronger than most people even know…and that there’s never been anything I can’t survive….

And that sometimes I need to find the answers in the quiet.

And there is no shame in that.

Just for me. Writing the words down so they stop swirling.

I’ve finally hit rock bottom.

Phone turned off.

Plans canceled.

Falling off the grid.

Quite honestly wishing I could die but too responsible to do anything about it.

Because one thing that can be said for me is I always do the right thing. Even when it hurts.

So I’ll continue living this fucking shit storm but I’m done living it amongst others.

At least for now.

It’s better this way.

For everyone.

And maybe now I can try to find a way to deal. By myself. Im better at by myself.

Hi, my name is Sheri. Welcome to my Twilight rants.

I started a little habit about 5 years ago. When I’m feeling down, I like to binge watch the Twilight movies. Let me tell you, there is NOTHING like watching these train wrecks to make you feel better about yourself and your life choices.

Now, let me say. The books were actually really good. But Bella Swan is still a dumb bitch. Even in the books.

First, what teenager is ever going to say, “Sure, Mom! I know you fell in love with a younger man and don’t want to be a mom anymore! That’s TOTALLY cool! I’ll just go live in this town that I despise and let you relinquish all responsibility for spitting me out of your vag! But you’re still the best mom ever!” No. That’s not a thing.

Next up. First day of school. Every guy there wants her, in spite of her weird little scowl, but who does she want? The weird pale guy who looks at her IMMEDIATELY like he wants to kill her. Hello, Date Line? Yes, I have your next trailer park murder story lined up.

So, dude disappears for a few days…comes back…”Oh, baby. I’m sorry I was so mean. I like you. I hate you. I’ll save you. I’ll discard you. You mean everything. You mean nothing.” Codependent Party of One… “LET ME LOVE YOU!!!!!”

We find out he’s a stalker…want him more…find out he’s a vampire… “BUT, I LOVE HIM!!!!” Deal with numerous near death experiences in the company of him and his family. *dreamy eyed* “They’re the best people I’ve ever known…”

Then, he abandons her. Gone. Like he never existed. So what does this bitch do? SITS BY HERSELF FOR MONTHS SENDING EMAILS TO A FAKE EMAIL ADDRESS. She has lost her mind. She’s literally talking to herself at this point.

Cute werewolf best friend falls in love with her. “Oh no, I couldn’t be happy with you…you don’t want to eat me!!” (Actually, that part…I mean…ummm…)

So…let’s go jump off a cliff so we can hallucinate!!

Oh no!! My emotionally abusive, whiny ex boyfriend has a plan to kill himself? Let me fly to Italy and face MORE people who want to kill me!

And for the finale, we will now spend over a year of, “Make me a monster.” “No.” “How about now?” “No.” “What if I…” “No.” “Then I’ll make someone else.” “No.” “Oh yeah? Then I’ll just get knocked up so you HAVE to keep me forever!!!”

Seriously, Bella Swan belongs on Jerry Springer taking a paternity test and clawing out the eyes of a barbie for looking at her mans.

But…this never fails. It always picks me up as I watch, in abject horror, how much worse my life choices could be.

And if that does fail you? Just do a shot every time she does something dumb. You’ll be so drunk within the first 20 minutes you won’t feel anything.

After many years of my father telling me that I was the more responsible of the two of us…and the numerous conversations I had with him over the years about his behavior…I’ve always known that parenting is a two way street.

From the first moment I met my Bella, I knew that squirmy crying little thing was going to teach me just as much as I taught her.

That’s parenting.

We teach them how to survive this world.

Often, they teach us how to love our world.

One of those instances came about during our road trip yesterday.

So, that squirmy crying little thing has grown into the 15 year old woman child that is the basis of my whole world.

Let me make this clear so no one ever thinks I’m about to become that fake Facebook mom who’s kid is perfect…

Y’all…this kid may be the death of me. She’s argumentative. She’s moody. She’s sometimes mean. She’s a slob. I could go on, but suffice it to say…

She’s a teenager.

But there’s so much more that she is, too. She’s hilarious. She’s brutally honest when she thinks people need to hear the truth. She loves her people with a fierceness that can’t be denied. I watched this kid, at 12 years old, (with a kind strength most adults can’t achieve) explain to her best friend why racist comments won’t be tolerated.

She knows who she is. She knows what she believes. She is not afraid to tell you. She is 100% her, 100% of the time.

As someone told me when she was around 11, “I know you worry about her and she drives you crazy, but…She is going to run the world. And she will never do something she doesn’t believe in.”

So, that kid…reared the head of her beautiful belief in herself yesterday.

She started talking about her “fan club”.

Apparently my Bella has “haters”. She also has some of the best friends anyone could ever want and she’s FLOURISHING socially this year. But…also haters.

Why do they hate her? She doesn’t know.

Did she do anything to them? She’s never said a word to them and doesn’t even know them.

Is she sure they really hate her then? Oh, yes…they will tell anyone who listens.

Does this hurt her? Nope.

“Mom, it’s high school. This is just how high school is. Why should I care if people, who don’t really know me, don’t like me? I just think it’s funny they spend that much time worried about me.”

Not gonna lie…with the utter sincerity and strength in self that she said that with…there’s never been anyone I more wanted to be like when I grow up.

So, being me, I laughed.

“Why are you laughing???”

“Because I’ve been going through this thing where I’m not liked…and it’s very clear I’m not liked…and I’ve been saying to my friends, literally, “What have I done to make them hate me so much???” as I cried like a little girl. Like you, the ones who don’t really like me….don’t really know me. But, apparently, you handle it better than I do.”

“So…basically you’re still in high school, too?”

“Yes. Yes I am.”

You guys. I don’t know where she gets this strength from. I don’t know how she’s become this person who is wiser than most adults.

I’d like to think I get some credit for who she’s growing up to be.

But I think she gets more credit for who I’m growing up to be.

Hi, my name is Sheri and I’m a recovering co-dependent. I’d love to say I’m recovered, but it’s a daily battle. Just as the addicts in my life had their drugs/alcohol, control and “helping” was mine. I was so afraid of failing them that I couldn’t not help…always to my own detriment.

But tonight…I said no.

I’ve had a lot of addicts in my life. Mostly alcohol…some drugs. My little brother is the one that most broke my heart, though. His world blew up at 5 years old and I always felt like it was my responsibility to fix it for him…to take care of him…to make sure he was OK. His drug problem started around 14…and has progressively gotten worse over the years. About once a year he tells me he’s clean and that he’s doing right…I trust him…he lies and manages to borderline destroy my life. Be it monetarily…possessions…lies…stress… turmoil…he flips my damn world upside down every time.

Then…back to AL Anon I go…I think I’m better…he shows up and proves me wrong.

That was the cycle. Until a few years ago when it wasn’t just me that he hurt…he hurt my daughter. Not physically, but in one of his drug binges…he allowed his friends to steal the jewelry I was saving for her that her dad gave me. All that she had left of our marriage. Gone. Every piece of it.

Since then, I swore I wouldn’t let him back in. Hurting me is one thing…especially the little brother who was always the child I was trying to save. But, now…he’s 37…and she’s the one who needs to be protected.

But that resolve wasn’t put to the test until tonight. Suddenly I received a message on Instagram from his account. Apparently he’s in jail. Again.

And they wanted me to help him. I stared at that damn message and felt myself crumble. I felt my boundaries that I’ve worked so hard at start to falter.

But I said no.

She asked again.

I stuck to my no.

And you know what? The world didn’t end. I’m struggling with some guilt tonight, but I’m also standing firm in AL Anons 3 Cs.

• I did not Cause it.
• I can not Cure it.
• I can not Control it.

And…while I’m struggling…I’m also a little proud. Recovery from being an addict’s codependent is still a process. But I made a really big stride in that process tonight.

I said no.