Acknowledge the Elephant

Thank you Marybeth Cichocki for joining the Magnolia New Beginnings blog! We look forward to seeing your posts!

After losing my son, Matt last January I feel like I’ve inherited the elephant.  You know the one I’m talking about.  The elephant in the room that no one will acknowledge let alone talk about. This elephant follows me around like a lost dog except he’s so much bigger and harder to ignore.

I inherited this elephant shortly after the death of my youngest son.  You see, Matt died from an overdose of prescription drugs.  He never touched street drugs and I never thought he would die.

So now I’m left behind.  Trying to come to terms with this tragedy and attempting to navigate this new life without my son.  Mothers are not supposed to bury their children.  It goes against nature.  Shattering our dreams of the present and our hopes for the future.  Shifting the axis of our lives, leaving us unbalanced and spinning out of control.  We expect to leave them behind.  Our children are our legacy.  Our children are expected to carry on for us after we are gone.

Throughout my journey I’ve come to understand and accept the fact that until someone has experienced this life altering loss and felt this heart shattering grief that knowing what to say to a mom like me is inconceivable.

Being so shrouded in grief I never thought about the impact that my tragedy had on friends and family.  I just witnessed their uneasiness and watched as they danced around my elephant.  Gatherings became uncomfortable.  Conversations were forced.  No one mentioned Matt’s name or acknowledged my loss. Invitations became scarce as friends faded away.

Soon my grief was accompanied by my new friend, loneliness.  Spending many days by myself gave me the soul searching experience of understanding that grief scares the hell out of people.  Grief by itself is tough enough.   Add the emotions and guilt that flood your brain after losing a child to addiction and you’ve created a barrier most people don’t know how to penetrate.

I’ve also come to understand that until someone has shared and understood this life altering grief, it would be impossible to imagine the impact their behavior and words would have on a mother like me whose world has been shattered. No one knows how to act or what to say. It’s easier for friends to disappear into the sunset then to accept the grieving me.

One day out of the blue I received a phone call.  A woman I’d never met found my number. She read my blog and needed help.  Her best friend joined my club.  Her son overdosed after years of struggling with addiction.  This amazing woman wanted to know how to help her friend.  Rather than running away, this woman was asking for help in learning how to remain a friend to this grieving mother.

Listening to her opened my floodgates. Here was this woman, a stranger reaching out to me when so many of my friends disappeared.  She showed the compassion that I so needed from those who abandoned me.  She wanted to speak to a mother who knew this grief and to understand how to be there for her friend.

This was perfect timing for me. The day after Matt’s birthday.  My grief still raw.  My eyes still swollen.  I took a deep breath and began to share my deepest pain with this caring heart.  My advice…..

Just show up.  Don’t call and ask if she wants company.  She is isolating herself in her grief.  If you ask permission she will find a million reasons to tell you to stay away.

Accept the Elephant.  Talk about her child.  Share your memories. Say their name.  Our children were a large part of our lives. Death has changed nothing, her child is part of her heart and lives on in her memories.  Allowing her to talk about her child is healing for her grieving heart.

Allow her to cry in your presence.  Cry with her.  Wrap her in your arms and allow her to sob.

Never tell her it will be ok because it will never be ok.  She buried her child along with her hopes and dreams for their future. The world as she knew it has spun out of her control.  It will never return to normal.

Don’t force her to go out in public.  Seeing happy families is very painful.  Bring food and flowers.  Surround her with her favorite things. Give her time to accept her loss.  Spending one on one time with a loving friend is a precious gift.

Never tell her “it’s been” and “you should be”.  I’ve heard that so many times I wanted to scream.  Believe me, she knows exactly how long it’s been and most likely is full of guilt for not being who she was before losing her child.

Support her through the first holidays.  Reminders of her loss will surround her every where she turns.  Family traditions take on a different meaning. Her family has changed and she needs time to adapt.  Don’t be upset if she declines invitations to holiday parties.  Refrain from forcing her to join in the festivities.  She needs to navigate a new life and the holidays are a brutal time for a grieving mother.  Instead ask what she is able to do and offer help.

Please suggest a Grief Therapy group.  Knowing I was not alone on this grief journey was the greatest gift.  Being surrounded by those who understand and were learning to live with this loss will help her get through the darkest of days.

Most importantly, you must remember that the loss of a child is the greatest pain a mother will ever experience.  Navigating through the grief of losing a child is a life long process. This is the one loss that time does not help.  Weddings and baby showers are now bittersweet.  She will never be the mother of the bride or groom.  She will never know the joy of holding her child’s firstborn.

Losing a child changes us and stays with us forever.  Time is full of reminders and regrets of what should have been and what is.  Learning not to fear “the elephant” and loving her for who she will become is the greatest gift to offer a grieving mother.

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Accepting Addiction As A Disease

Is it a disease or a choice? I’ve entered into this debate many times.

Drug addiction is so shrouded in shame and stigma that talking about it in any random group of people often invites conflict. Many, many people still believe that drug addiction is a sign of moral failure, a conscious choice to self-destruct.

If we insist that our loved ones are choosing to be addicts, that they want to stick a needle in their arm and live in a gutter, then we feel justified in our anger and our bitterness. If we keep feeding those feelings, they will consume us.

I choose to believe that my daughter is wired differently and is prone to addictive disease. That’s no surprise, since four generations in my family have all had addictive disease in varying degrees. For whatever reason we still are unsure of, whatever life stresses beckoned her into that dark place, she became a victim of addiction.

But I’ll leave the final word to the experts, one of whom, Dr.Nora Volkow, Director of the National Institute on Drug Abuse, I often quote:

“I’ve studied alcohol, cocaine, methamphetamine, heroin, marijuana and more recently obesity. There’s a pattern in compulsion. I’ve never come across a single person that was addicted that wanted to be addicted. Something has happened in their brains that has led to that process.”

Marilea Rabasa is a blogger and author of A Mother’s Story: Angie Doesn’t Live Here Anymore by Maggie C. Romero (pseudonym) published by Mercury HeartLlnk and available on Amazon. She can also be found on www.recoveryofthespirit.com

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Reflections From A Warrior Mom

Reflecting on why I’m on this train heading to DC instead of spending a lazy Saturday morning at home. Thinking about the past 20 months and 14 days and this life altering journey I’ve begun. Remembering my son, Matt and his struggle to find help and hope. Feeling that now familiar grip on my heart I’ve come to know too well. A mothers grief over losing a part of her heart. Looking back on the woman I once was but will never be again. My grief has changed the way I look at this world. I have no fear of being hurt. I have suffered the ultimate pain, I have lost a child. There are days I’m crippled by my grief. Days the reality is almost too much to bear and I find myself wanting to disappear. Days when continuing to breathe is an effort. Then I see Matt forever in my mind and I feel a strength come over my soul. He is with me. Forever tucked safely in my heart. Telling me to fight for him. So today I’m heading down to DC to once again use my voice against those who think killing our children is an acceptable way to make a living.
I’ve fooled myself into thinking I could do this without tears. That enough time has passed since the last time I marched in Washington for this very same cause. I thought I had buried my pain deep enough to keep it quietly under wraps. That this year I would be stronger. I would be wiser. I would set an example on how to fight the system. I was not prepared for my gut reaction upon seeing the faces of the mothers I’ve come to know and love. These mothers have suffered my loss. They too have received that call. The one we prayed never to receive. The one we feared would come. The call that would both break us and change us into women who have no fear. Our greatest fear has molded us into angry, mourning mothers. Our anger is not directed at our children but focused on a government that turns its back on the disease it helped create. The disease of addiction to opioids. This disease swept our kids out to a sea so beyond our reach that every life saving attempt was met with a powerful wave pulling them further away from our arms.
Last year the faces that walked beside me were those of strangers. This year those faces all familiar from our advocacy. Faces that have empathy in the eyes that know my pain. Faces that warm my heart and fuel my anger. Faces that wear my mask. A mask that hides brokenness and allows this grieving mother to shout out against those who killed my son. Faces from all over this country fueled by common grief fighting my fight. Mothers who say No More.
Flashbacks filled my mind as I saw the majestic Washington Monument in the distance. Memories of my last visit 9 months to the day of losing Matt. Feelings flooding my heart with a grip of pain that took my breath away. Pain now etched in my heart.
Standing on the hill overlooking Sullivan Theater I was empowered by the crowd. Everyone holding signs with names and faces of those loved and lost. I look at my sign. Calling out Overprescribing doctors. Killers hiding behind white coats. I look at Matt’s smiling face and feel the overwhelming power to join that crowd. To hold back my tears and join those speaking out. The parents who have traveled across our country to stand together and fight this fight. Fellow warriors who believe that we have suffered enough. Our kids, some gone, some still struggling deserve better than what they got. Those gone are remembered. Pictures and names are everywhere. My mind is telling me I’m ok. I got this. Then I see his name and I’m lost in my grief. The wave hit as seeing his name slapped my face with the shock of reality. My Matt is gone. He has earned a place of honor with a thousand others. I am falling into my dark place. Unable to breathe. My body shaking. I’m alone in my grief. I feel arms wrapping around me. Another mother mixing her tears with mine. I grab her and hold on. We hold each other up as we see our boys names next to each other. We were once strangers. We now have a bond that will last forever.
I regain my strength. My flow of tears now mark my face. My mask is cracking. My grief fighting to get to my surface. I feel my anger returning. Listening to the amazing speakers who get it continues to refuel my spirit. Once again I tell myself I can do this.
I’m given the opportunity to tell Matt’s story. Dr. Botticelli is listening. He grabs my hand and engages me in a conversation on how to proceed with my fight. His words fuel me and I feel empowered. Once again I am able to speak with those who will listen. We share stories. We say names and show pictures. We become one.
I am able to beat back my grief. I remind myself of my purpose. To come and join my voice with so many others. To be that warrior mom. To fight for Matt.
We are preparing to march. Holding my sign I hear a beautiful voice. Amazing Grace is filling the air. Those words surround the air I breathe. I am gone. No longer in control as the sobs wrack my body. I am no longer that warrior mom. My mask lay at my feet broken into a million pieces. I reveal who I really am. A shattered, grieving mother. I no longer care about anyone. I put my hand to my mouth to cover the sounds coming from my soul. I am lost in the abyss. A tender voice breaks through my fog. I feel arms wrapping around my shaking body. A head touching mine. A beautiful friends consoling this broken women. A life preserver for me to grab. Pulling me back from the darkness. Wrapping me in the love of someone who gets it.
This moment captured for all the world to see. Our image frozen in time. A warrior mom overcome by the profound loss of her son. A loving women offering comfort. This is the face of addiction. The face of a mother who fought for and lost her precious son. This is the face that I pray will haunt those who say addict’s are unworthy. That their lives don’t matter. My face showing life altering, raw, ugly grief. The face of a mother who for a brief moment in time forgot about everything except her beautiful boy.

 

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I Love Recovery Cafe

In my previous posting to this site, I discussed the importance of Step 1 and ways in which it can be worked. In this post I will discuss Step 2 in similar fashion. Step 2 reads as follows: Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity. Thoroughly working Step…

via Have You Really Worked Step 2? – By Robert Weiss LCSW, CSAT-S — I Love Recovery Cafe

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Without her…

“She died over 10 years ago but came to me in my dream early this morning…I know you would get it”

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Photo Credit: Randy Mason

 

I had a cousin once

she was like a sister

Whatever I did

She did

Wherever I went

She went

Except for one thing

And no matter how hard I tried

I couldn’t get her to stop

Now she’s gone

She died alone

And I was so angry

And then I was so sad

I miss her very much

I still cry sometimes

She is in a better place

She must be

That’s how I go on

Without her

-Julie Sylvester Greer 2017

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Unapproachable

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You think I like walking around protecting every breath I take?
You think it feels good having to live life not knowing which word will make me break?
My guard is all I have left, that has taught me how to survive.
It protects me
I know I have a safe place where I can hide.
I never wanted to end up this cold
like an ice berg leaving frostbite to those who come to close.
But life has taught me the only way to get by,
is to put this mask on but never let them see you cry.
I wish so badly I could let my guard down expose how I truly feel
Maybe I wouldn’t be accused of not working on the pain I try so hard to heal
You wouldn’t know what to do if your were to ever be in my shoes
This mask comes with years of pain
Disloyalty, shame,rape and abuse
This mask is all I have left.
Taking it off would be like changing my first name.
So when you tell me my demeanor is to much for you to handle
Imagine what it would be like taking something off that’s kept you alive,
Next time your quick to judge
Try to remember everyone is struggling trying to survive.

Keri Caccavaro

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A NJ family breaks the stigma with heartfelt eulogy

My family and I could not have gotten through this week without the continuous love and support from our family and friends. For all the cards, texts, emails, Facebook messages, phone calls, and visits, we thank you.

It is time that we broke the stigma that has been connected to drug abuse and mental health. If you or someone you love is struggling with a chemical dependency or mental health issue, please seek help.

Many people have urged me to make public the eulogy that I read at my brother’s funeral. If we can reach even one person, then we will have accomplished our goal.
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First and foremost, my family and I would like to thank all of our friends and family who have shown us overwhelming love and support throughout this extremely difficult time. Many people traveled great distances to be here to show their love to us and to my brother, and for that, we are forever grateful. My family and I would also like to thank the Wilmington police and fire departments. The care and concern that they showed to, not just my family, but specifically my mother, was nothing less than professional and truly kind. And to all of you, we are thankful.

Tim. There are certain words that come to mind when I think of you. Loving. Silly. Charismatic. Funny. Flirtatious. Mischievous. Deeply sensitive. Family orientated. Helping. But I keep coming back to loving. I don’t think that there is anyone here who could possibly disagree with me. Timmy was nothing less than a respectful gentleman who cared more for others than he ever cared for himself. He was truly selfless. At the core of his heart, he put all others before himself.

However, Timmy fought a battle that changed him. He fought a continuous battle against himself. He became a person that he did not want to be. He lost touch of that selfless, funny, giving person, that we all knew he was; that he knew he was. This disease turned him into a person that he did not want to be. He was not happy with himself when he was using. He did not like the person he became when the drug entered into him. But he could not control it. He tried his best, but this disease got the best of him. All he ever wanted to do was help others, but he could not do enough to simply help himself.

The best thing that we can do to honor Timmy’s memory is to remember the good times that we all had. Growing up, we had so much fun. Whether it was our summers in Hull, or our trips to Myrtle Beach, we had too much fun. We grew up as very lucky and privileged children. And Timmy and I both knew that. We were very grateful for what we had. We got to take ski trips, vacations to Disney, weekends in York, Maine or Cape Cod, and trips to the Bronx to visit family. Timmy once got the chance to visit me at college, and we had a GREAT time. Too good of a time. And that is a memory that I will forever cherish. Needless to say, we grew up in a healthy and loving household, with a large extended family, that we loved and that loved us. We wanted for nothing. And this is something that I hope my parents and family will forever remember.

Addiction is a terrible disease. It does not discriminate. It shows no mercy. It can come upon someone within the blink of an eye. And then it creep upon someone over the course of years. There is no definite cause. But there is a definite cure. The only cure to addiction is simply to stop. Just stop. And that will guarantee success. But the part of addiction that is so hard to grasp are the physical and psychological holds that it takes on its victims. Every addict knows what to do in order to beat this disease. The cure is simple. The cure is to stop. But the cure cannot be provided in a hospital or from a pharmacy. And that is what makes addiction a disease unlike anything else. However, I think that the true cures to addiction can be found within. The true cures to addiction are love, support, faith, awareness, and hope. We need to change the way we treat addiction and mental health. We need more love, support, faith, awareness, and hope.

As I stand here before you today, most of you know that Tim and I had a very strained relationship over the last few years. But it was the addiction that I hated, not my brother. With love, we can keep Tim’s memory and spirit alive. With support, my family and I will overcome this terrible tragedy. With faith, we know that Tim will be smiling down upon us and no longer hurting. With awareness, we can educate ourselves, friends, and families on the truth behind addiction. And with hope, with just an ounce of hope, anyone struggling with addiction or mental health issues can get the help they need, and beat this nasty disease that took my baby brother’s life too soon. If you or someone you love is suffering from addiction or mental illness, please seek help. It’s never too late, until it’s too late. Tim, may you forever rest in peace. You no longer have to fight. Look over us. We love you.

With permission Scott Brady- You and your family are in our prayers, as is Tim. Thank you for sharing.

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Director Of National Drug Control Policy, Michael Botticelli is Coming to InTheRooms.com — I Love Recovery Cafe

To access this event you will need an account with InTheRooms. Once you’re logged in, on the day of the event, the Special Events video room will be open. We are honored to announce that the White House Director of National Drug Control Policy, Michael Botticelli will be Live and in Person on InTheRooms.com, June […]

via Director Of National Drug Control Policy, Michael Botticelli is Coming to InTheRooms.com — I Love Recovery Cafe

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At the end of the day…

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