So I called her, for the first time in over a month. Me at 40, detached. Finally. And she wept and apologized and begged. Asked forgiveness. I listened. Did not follow her down that ruinous path. I said this instead:
"Every interaction I've had with you
has been affected by your drinking.
I cannot have that in my life anymore."
waited. hoping for I don't know what.
"I understand."
Acknowledgement without excuses. My fears true. A year ago I didn't know what was false; now I know so much is false--and maybe I understand one truth: the fundamental truth in addiction is the need/compulsion to do something--sometimes anything--to mask incredible pain. Without getting to the pain, the addiction remains. And in some cases, when the addiction is so entrenched, the addiction has to go first, before you can touch the pain.
So many people in pain. So much ruin. An endless circle of tragedy.
Breaking the cycle.
She tells me she's at the end of her journey, that something better awaits her. In other words, I've been doing this too long to change now. I wish I understood that. But I'm not 70. She tells me that if I'm alright, she's alright. And again I want to scream, stop living through me. It is an incredible weight, that need to be okay for you. I am no longer willing to carry it.
With this knowledge, an amazing burden has been lifted. I try not to let sadness replace it.
I used to tell her "When you get little and I get big," and whatever followed that was a reflection of my illusion that we would one day trade places. She'd be the little girl, I'd be the mother. That was even after I knew that parents die, because my father had. But somehow, I thought with her: "When you get little and I get big, I'll take care of you." But you see, I already *was* taking care of her at a great cost to me. No more. I've known that for months. But I said it. My voice. Strong.
Underneath it all I am alone.
Through my window concrete pain.
Rippling with the heat off my driveway, whisps of joy.
Beginning to discern which is which.
