The Struggle is Real: Mama's Tears

I was 10 the first time I got my second-hand high and 14 when I made the decision to smoke a joint while walking to school. I would progress to skipping school to get drunk. Before too long, I was willing to drop a few blots of acid. In the meantime, Mama was sitting at home crying as she wondered if I was alive or dead when I was not where I was supposed to be. She wanted me home, but most of all she wanted to hear me say, "Hey Mama."

I would become a high school dropout and teen wife and mother. It would seem that all the dreams she had for me were crushed. However, they were just pushed aside for a while and replaced with many wrong decisions. I had gotten to the point that I was encouraging the kids to go play so I could smoke a joint or snort a few lines of cocaine or meth. I still believed I was not addicted because at least I wasn't shooting up and smoking crack like other people I knew. It wasn't until my son knocked on my door asking, "What is that smell coming from your room?" that I began to see just how bad I had gotten. He knew what the smell was; he just wanted me to know he knew. It was that day that I decided to begin my process of recovery.

Fast forward:

I am now 27 years in sobriety and I am the mother who has to sit at home worrying if I will ever hear my son say, "Hey Mama" again. I now understand that the disease of addiction does not just hurt the addict, it also rips at the heart of those you love. But I also know that recovery is possible and that hope is the only thing that is able to dry these Mama's tears.