Courage is Love

I once read a short article written by a military man who had been to war and came back a hero. The gist of the story told about how he had been praised for his courage, and received medals for his actions. He said he didn’t like it. Deep down he hadn’t felt brave at all. What made him do the things he had done was fear. The fear of never seeing his loved ones again. What would happen to his wife and children if he didn’t make it home?

It is said there is no courage without fear. I believe losing the ones we love or letting them down is the greatest fear a person can have. It is and always has been for me. In that sense, if my opinion were true – even just for myself – I might say love is the catalyst for courage.

My love for a child caused me to get out of bed everyday no matter how depressed I felt and fight for her survival in addiction. For twelve years I went into hell with her. Terrified of losing her. The first rehab felt like the cure. By the sixth, I was living in another mental state.

I prayed for miracles.

I prayed she could stay in a facility forever, where she would be safe from herself.

And as much as I loved her, I couldn’t stand the suffering. Hers and mine. I once thought she would be better off not surviving. And it sounds shitty to say, but I think it was a way for me to prepare myself to let her go, if it came to that. I thought it would.

People judge you for what happens to your children. If your child grows up and makes bad decisions, and becomes a criminal or drug addict, someone believes you didn’t raise them right. It can be true. But there are so many factors involved, including things that your child is too afraid to tell you. Abuse or trauma you knew nothing about. It is a big factor for teenage addiction.

Yes, people who were supposedly friends made mean remarks to my face, within earshot, and even on Facebook. Not about me or her directly. In general comments about addiction, or addicts, or the ‘free’ treatment they receive. Bank accounts, brain damage, life threatening blood infections can attest nothing was free.

Sympathy, empathy, or asking how we were doing was difficult for my friends. They had no understanding about addiction, or what my family was going through. Once addiction touched a few of their lives, though, new stories emerged. Heartbreak I would not want anyone to experience.

There is a reason you see a sign with a certain quote at many rehabilitation facilities that reads:

“Always be kind, everyone is going through something you cannot understand.”

It is easy to be the neighbor watching and judging someone else’s problems harshly when they haven’t had the same experience. They postulate about the ways you did things wrong. How worthless your child is, but it’s probably your fault. Or how you just need to cut the apron strings. Tough love. You’re doing too much, make them figure it out.

Yes, I did too much. I paid too much. It was like being in a mental warzone for 12 years, because I couldn’t let my child die. My love made me show up every day, in every capacity possible, to help her find a way through addiction. Even if it felt like I was dying, even if I was at work, or on top of a mountain. I would grab my car keys and get to her when I had to.

That’s what love does. It makes you do what is necessary, survive fear, take the words or stones thrown at you, spend your last dime, and never let go of hope you’ll be able to show up for the ones you love – and that it will matter. Love takes your courage.

Thank you for reading,

Anne