When nothing else works: Letting go and grieving the loss of a child to alcoholism

Being a highly-trained mental health professional, I am well aware that loss comes in many forms other than death—loss of a childhood, a job, or a dream. I’ve helped many people work through their losses by getting them to understand that grief is a process—a slow but methodical process.

Now it’s my turn. I’m grieving the loss of my son to drugs and alcohol.

It wasn’t supposed to happen in my family, not to my child. Both my husband and I are Master’s level helping professionals; we’d spent years working with homeless alcoholics. Our children grew up seeing the ill effects of drugs and alcohol. Plus, we talked to our kids about drugs and alcohol. We did all the “just say no” stuff.

We were a little surprised when our son first showed up stoned, but we knew what to do. When he was expelled from school for having drugs on campus, we knew what to do. When he tried to commit suicide after several days of drinking and using cocaine, we knew what to do. What a surprise it was when nothing we tried seemed to make any difference in our son’s drinking or drug use.

I was completely convinced that all I had to do was say the right things; get my son to the right therapist, the right treatment program; and he would see the light and stop. I tried for nearly five years. I tried to control where he went, who he was with, and everything else I could think of to get him to stop. When I started looking for the right curve in the road that would send me to certain death as I drove over a cliff, I began to think I just might need to give up fixing my son and focus on me.

The idea of giving up on my son was unfathomable, but I had to accept that I wasn’t omnipotent. I had to let go of the dreams, hopes, and plans I had for my son. I had to accept that he had a disease that he—and only he—could fix and a disease he cannot get over, only from which he can recover. I had to give up getting my husband to do the right things and to accept that our son had become an addict and an alcoholic.

I took a leave of absence from work because I was too depressed to get up, let alone get dressed and drive to work. I gave up on keeping the house clean, the dishes done, the meals cooked. All I could do was agonize over what my son had become and how little I could do.

Needless to say, I walked into an Al-Anon meeting, like many others, because I was in so much pain. I did not know what to do with this kind of pain—pain that sucked the breath out of me. Nor did I know how to stop the worrying or the uncontrollable onslaught of gut-wrenching sobbing.

What I found in that Al-Anon meeting was a place where the hurt I felt could be expressed and—more importantly—understood. Everyone there knew what I was feeling. I could cry and feel, and would not be pitied but supported. I heard others say they had been exactly where I was.

I couldn’t talk to my very good network of friends outside of meetings because they either felt contempt and hatred for my son for hurting his dad, his sister, and me, or they would take on the sadness and pain I was feeling. The Al-Anon folks had this ability to distance themselves from my pain. I also found a sense of safety in Al-Anon meetings. Meetings were the only place I could get any relief. For an hour each day I could be grounded and somewhat sane.

I’m still grieving, but the despair is gone. I have turned my son over to God, knowing that I haven’t lost my son, just given him to a Higher Power. I’m working on believing that a Power greater than me can restore my sanity. My brain gets it; it just has to filter into my heart.