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Last week, driving to pick up some plants and gardening supplies, my three sons were all sober at the same time. The. Same. Time. The late Spring sun was out and like a lot of us Pacific Northwesters, we were itching to get growing. I couldn’t wait to get my hands dirty. Oldest was excited […]
It’s my pleasure to introduce today’s guest blogger, Dena Yohe. Dena’s website, Hope for Hurting Parents, is a great resource for those of us who walk this path. “I can’t sleep! I’m a nervous wreck and I had another argument with my husband over what we should do next. This can’t be happening. How much […]
A zillion days ago, before life became quarantined due to the COVID-19 pandemic, my thirtysomething middle son talked about getting his act together. He was going to finish that GED, at long last, as well as get his driver’s license. He’d spoken to a former employer who’d give him a job. His cheeks had plumped […]
My adult middle son leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms. “I’m not worried about getting it.” He raised his chin. “I’m immune.” He shrugged, but his cheeks were hollow and sharp, the way they get after he’s been on a binge. I hesitated. He had to be tweaking—the part when the methamphetamine […]
Despite the sunshine, the morning was late-winter crisp. As a friend and I ventured out for a walk, I poured out my heart. “All three of my sons are messes.” I pulled my woolen scarf higher around my neck. “And not one of them is willing to change. It’s like Russian roulette—do I wait for […]
My grown son ran outside to my car in the pouring rain, hauling in the bags of groceries I’d just bought. Before I could ask, he polished the silver for the holidays and then vacuumed the carpet. For nearly two weeks, we laughed and talked and once I even got to hug him. He talked […]
On an early December evening, my neighbor’s holiday lights sparkle while I sign Christmas cards with Peace glittered across the front. I’m in the spirit—until I start to add personal notes. My chest tightens, my fingers grip the pen. What can I say that isn’t a big fat lie? My inner voice is cruel: Hi […]
On Monday night, the bedside digital clock reads eleven-thirty-nine PM. My thirty-eight-year-old middle son flings open the door and crashes into our bedroom. Not that I’m asleep or anything—I’ve already awoken to suspicious thumps coming from the kitchen. My stomach clenches, my insides twist themselves into an infinity knot. And I start thinking about love. […]
I’m told that in twelve-step-style recovery meetings, they discourage sharing “war stories,” or telling about specific incidents of being under the influence. By not talking about using, or the surrounding drama, various triggers are avoided, the group can better focus on recovery—and hang onto those 30-day chips. The No War Stories rule also gently helps […]
That night, my son’s text arrived long after I was asleep, so I didn’t hear the chime. The next morning, I read his profanity-laced description of the work party he’d attended. Worst work party ever, it read. f*** (the restaurant). The needle on my guilt-o-meter shot up so fast it could have reached escape velocity. […]
Linda has always been a daydreamer, artist and storyteller. In addition to doting on grandbabies, collecting too many cats, gardening and walking on the beach, she loves to write and to help writers develop their skills. [READ MORE…]
