Let Her Go: The Story of My Daughter's Addiction and How I Found Serenity

LET HER GO - The Story of My Daughter's Addiction and How I Found Serenity

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 by Donna Smith

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Dear Readers:

This is the first time I've ever sat down and written the whole entire story of the tragedies of my life & the life of my beautiful daughter. I am a middle aged woman who lives a middle class America life. My life was laced with tragedy, yet filled with hope and faith, despite the fact that I was a very young widow at the age of 22, left with a baby to raise alone, and that baby grew up to be an alcoholic/drug addict.

I have not yet in my life, met one person who has not been affected by the devastation that alcohol and drug abuse causes, not only for the addict, but for the entire sphere of the addict's influence.

I can't begin to tell you the number of people who know my story and have said to me, You should write a book! It's true, my life story with my family of origin truly reads like a fictional tragic soap opera. Nothing written in this book is in any way exacerbated, made up, or embellished.

If I hadn't lived it, I wouldn't believe it myself.

I want you to know that you can survive -- and yes, even have serenity -- even though your child/spouse/friend/relative/acquaintance/whoever was or is a drug addict or alcoholic. I am living proof of that.

You can read this entire book in just a few hours, maybe less. It's a very compelling story because it is so personal. It is my life story -- a true story. If you love an addict or even just know one, I guarantee you, you will see yourself in this book. Everything you are feeling, I have felt. I pray you will come away with some hope and strength and good information by reading my story.

The names you read here are not the real names, including mine. I have no desire to place my family in such a tragic spotlight, nor air our dirty laundry in public. But this story of my life with my beautiful daughter and her lifelong addiction and alcoholism, as well as my own struggles being a young widow and single mother, and later, a huge codependent, must be told.

It is my hope and prayer that whoever reads this book will not only learn from my mistakes, but also find peace and serenity within themselves, no matter what the addict/alcoholic is doing or not doing -- and, especially, realize that someone else's addiction is in no way their fault, no matter what kind of parent, son, daughter, other relative, partner, boss, co-worker, acquaintance, friend, or lover they were or are.

As bad as it would be, even if you put the drugs or alcohol into their mouths or veins and forced them to partake, you are not at fault for their addiction or alcoholism! Addicts and alcoholics are capable of recognizing when their life has become unmanageable and the pain unbearable. Recovery is always their option, but not always their choice. And over that, you have no control. It was a hard lesson for me to learn.

Our recovery or not is also OUR choice. As someone once said, Pain is inevitable; misery is optional.

May God bless you as you read this book, and may He open your eyes as He did mine. May you find serenity no matter what.

The ringing of the phone jars me, as it always does these days, and I jump.

PLEASE GOD, NOTHING ABOUT LAURIE. PLEASE.

Donna, you need to go over to that apartment where Laurie is living, exclaims my daughter's addict friend's mother, Lynn, her voice strained. Her teenage daughter and son have been sharing an apartment with Laurie. It is one big party of drugs and sex 24/7 over there. I know this, despite Laurie's lies when confronted about it.

This is not the first conversation similar to this that I had with Lynn, and it wasn't to be the last either. Whenever she called me or I called her, we knew it was not going to be a pleasant conversation.

Oh no, WHAT NOW? My heart is pounding, I'm starting to sweat, and my mind is going in a hundred different directions. I am getting that familiar sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Well, evidently, they all had a huge fight, and they have trashed the apartment. Even the windows are broken. My kids left, but Laurie is still there, and she is not in good shape according to them.

Okay, I'm on my way. Thanks for calling.

I drive like a mad woman. I must admit I am so glad it is a weekend so I don't have to take off work -- AGAIN. I get to the apartment, and the front door is wide open. I am afraid to enter. I notice all the broken windows. I slowly walk inside and call Laurie's name. I see no one. I call her name over and over as I carefully and slowly walk through the apartment, trying to avoid the broken glass and the filth. I notice there is food smeared and splashed onto the walls, garbage strewn about, and the place reeks. The refrigerator door is half off, and there is no food in it. Empty baby food jars are laying about. The place has all the makings of a crack house, and that is exactly what it is.

Sadly, it is a scene I am familiar with because of my daughter Laurie's addiction and alcoholism.

I go in the open doors of two of the bedrooms. Nothing but broken glass and filth. Then I see another bedroom, and the door is closed.

I feel like I'm going to have a heart attack, my heart is pounding so hard out of my chest, and it's up in my throat. I feel like I am going to vomit and pass out. I just know Laurie is in this room. I knock on the door, and I scream her name again, LAURIE!

No response.

I am afraid to open the door.

But I have to.

I don't want to see this.

But I have to.

I can't face this.

But I have to.

I feel again the monster of all fears -- that she is dead.

I slowly open the door and call Laurie's name again. She is there. She is laying face down not moving, on a bed of shattered glass. I think to myself, she is dead and I feel like I will die myself. I start yelling her name and shaking her. She finally rouses. She is dirty and smells of urine and body odor. Her clothes are wrinkled and torn. She is a skeleton with sunken eyes. How could she have lost so much weight so fast? She is very dopey and dazed. The realization hits me, and I feel sick: This time she was moments from death from an overdose.

Thank God for drop-off rehabs. I tell her I want to take her to the rehab, would she please go? She resists at first, but somehow I help her into the car and begin driving her to the rehab, thinking all the time that she will jump out of the car at the stop lights. She is in a foul mood, and the little talking she does is filled with profanity and lashing out at me, a scenario I have been through with her so many times before, and always the result of her coming down from the drugs.

My beautiful, sweet, generous, fun-loving, funny Laurie has turned into someone none of us recognize anymore, not only physically, but emotionally, mentally, and spiritually.

We get to the intake section of the facility, and an overweight woman starts to talk to Laurie about admitting herself. She pisses Laurie off immediately with her questions, so Laurie tells the fat bitch that she should think about Weight Watchers and storms out the door, without even a glance my way. I start crying, and frantically ask the lady what I should do, should I run and get her?

She shakes her head and says, LET HER GO.

PART I - TRAGEDY 101 - MY STORY

Before I can tell you Laurie's story, I should tell you mine.

I was born into a middle class family. My father was a Cook, and my mother was a stay-at-home mom. I am the baby of the family. My brother is 11 years older, and my sister is 4 years older. Our family was considered normal when we were growing up, in that my parents were married before we kids were born, and they stayed married. There was no alcohol or drug abuse or physical violence in our home; however, there was much dysfunction.

My mother and father had been separated during World War II when my brother was a baby, because my father was called to serve in the Army. My mother and father became emotionally distant while he was gone, and when he came home, my mother said their lives were never the same again. They were not happy anymore, but stayed married, and then had my sister, and then me.

I don't remember my father and mother ever sleeping in the same bed, and some years, not even the same room.

I don't remember ever seeing them kiss or hug or show any affection whatsoever.

My parents never dreamed big and were satisfied with a mediocre existence, so they never taught me to dream big. My desires to be an actress and/or singer, even at a very young age, were laughable to them, even though I had natural God-given talent in these areas. I used to play my brother's Elvis 45's and sing and dance in front of the mirror, using my hair brush as a microphone. I was GOOD, as good as a 5 year old can be. I loved music and I loved singing and dancing. Too bad Star Search wasn't around. But then again, I'm sure my parents would never have let me audition for it. They were into reality, and reality was that people like us never make it in life. We had to settle for the mundane.

When I was about 7, I awoke in the middle of the night vomiting and, according to my mother, making horrible noises. My parents drove me to the Emergency Room of the local hospital and I was admitted right away. I don't remember any of that, because I was unconscious. I do remember that while I was in the hospital I kept vomiting, and I would have these sensations come over me that felt like I was falling very fast. It was utterly terrifying. I would scream, I'm falling! and the nurse would rush in and put the sides up on my bed and assure me that I was not falling. This kept happening over and over for a few days, and then I got better. The doctor could never figure out what was wrong with me, but since I was better, they released me.

As it turns out, what I was experiencing in the hospital were seizures. What they think happened was that I was accidentally poisoned. We had lime trees in our yard, and I was the designated picker. That day I had picked some limes so that my mother could make key lime pie and limeade, and unbeknownst to me, my father had just sprayed the trees with poison. Being a chronic fingernail biter and no hand sanitizers around at that time, I got the poison into my system.

I could have died. For some reason, God evidently wanted me to stick around. I honestly still haven't figured out why.

As an early teenager, I was very shy and insecure. I felt invisible. It didn't help that my mother favored my older sister, Martha. She told me one time about a comment someone had made about us: Martha is the pretty one and Donna is the sweet one. I felt ugly and