My Family Saturated Me With Love.
When I was in rehab, my parents visited me on every family visitation day. My extended family sent me cards and letters. They sent me flowers and stuffed animals and more cards. This was before emails or smart phones, yet every day brought something new and wonderful from my family.
Debbie, my friend from college, had always had hope that I’d recover; she sent me two cards during my stay. But my other “friends” didn’t notice my absence. Most just kept using. Bonnie – my supposed “best friend” had no support to give.
The people who drank the way I drank didn’t actually want me to get sober. Some of them ended up getting sober; some went on to die of alcoholism. Some are still drinking excessively decades later.
None of them were in touch with me during rehab.
My therapist didn’t acknowledge my stay. For 31 days, I heard nothing. After receiving so much support from my family, I didn’t understand it. I’d only gone into treatment because Dr. C said I had to stop drinking in order to continue seeing him – but while I was in rehab? Crickets.
I went to exactly two therapy sessions after rehab, announcing that his lack of support infuriated me. I felt like I’d paid him to be my friend when obviously he wasn’t my friend at all. So I quit therapy with Dr. C – and landed in therapy with at least five other female therapists over the next ten years.
But my family? They were the most supportive, loving, wonderful people – even from afar – even after all that I put them through, after all those insane escapades when they were pulled into the riptide, after all those months and years of pain, not being able to do anything to help. My family saturated me with love, and I felt like I’d been reborn.
When I got out, they continued to support me. I was invited to family reunions and picnics, holiday dinners and shopping sprees. I got letters and cards in the mail. Sometimes, just when I thought I wouldn’t survive another minute sober, a card would appear and I would think, Well, for my family I can probably make it one more day.
And so I did. I would head off to a meeting – often walking in bare feet for miles, because it was summer. And I would sit in the back of that meeting and listen while people described my life – as they told their own stories.
No one was happier that I was choosing a new way of life than my parents. For some reason, in spite of all my prior attempts at getting sober, my parents had hope. They invited me over for dinner on several occasions, and I cherished this time. I felt like I’d come back from the dead. We practiced using our “I” statements (learned in rehab) to communicate, which was helpful in making sure we didn’t overtly irritate each other.
My mom and I talked almost every day again, like we had when I was in college. She listened, and I talked, and she listened some more. No one listens like Mom.
And after our dinners when my dad would hug me, he’d sneak money into my hand, my pockets, anywhere he could. He did this for months before I stopped him and said, “Thank you, but I know you love me. You don’t have to give me money to prove it.” Dad hugged me again, kept the money, and we moved forward into a more adult relationship.
I felt supported, appreciated and overwhelmingly loved.