She was several years younger than I was but no longer looked it. The past few months had aged her, there were dark circles under her pain-filled eyes and her worry lines had deepened into creases. She was worn down with fear, uncertainty, guilt, anger, with motherhood itself. "How" she asked me in a shaky voice, "Do I let go of my child?"
The child in question was in her mid-20's and claimed to be living on the streets of a nearby town in Texas. She had no place to sleep or shower, no car, no food, no money and no prospects except her mother's already drained savings. She had farmed out her six month old son to his grandmother and her common law husband was back in jail for possession with intent to sell, grand theft and larceny. Her own sister had turned her away because of her history of drug abuse and the collateral damage - a lifetime of lies and deceit, broken promises, half hearted attempts at rehab. She'd finally used up her last last chance and her mother was was at her wits end - torn between the welfare of her child and her need to break free. Her illusions were shattered, her hopes for her daughter in pieces, and her own well-being was compromised. She didn't want to prolong the cycle but didn't know how not to.
We tend to look at addiction as either self-inflicted, in which case we spare no pity and leave the victims to lie alone in the beds they have made for themselves, or as a problem which love and sacrifice can overcome. When the ones we care for turn to self-destruction, especially our children, they will drag us down with them, knowing we will not abandon them. We refuse to see that every rescue, every bail out, every bit of money sent provides them with their next fix and our next heartbreak.
"How do I let go of my child?" she asks and I answer from experience, "With as much love as you have left."
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