I looked at myself in the mirror, took a deep breath, and said out loud:
“I’m the mom of an addict.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. And then, almost in disbelief, I whispered the follow-up:
“My God… my daughter is a drug addict.”
It took me a very, very long time to be able to say those words out loud.
I never thought I would. Not about her. The first time I held her in my arms as a newborn, I saw her infinite potential. Her life stretched out before her, filled with possibility. But never—not once—did I ever imagine that one day, she would be a drug addict.
The serious kind.
Marijuana gave way to ecstasy. Then ketamine. Then meth, heroin, and everything inbetween. And now fentanyl. She’s an IV user. Even among addicts, she is considered hardcore. The kind that fills me with terror when I let myself think about it for too long.
I call her My Wayward Daughter.
She started using at 13 years old. By her freshman year of high school, she was dating a drug dealer and by 17 years old, she was hooked on hard drugs. Like so many others, she thought she could control it. She thought she could quit anytime she wanted.
Our home became a war zone. She was combative. Suicidal. And I—her Mama—became consumed with saving her. I clung to the hope that if we just loved her enough, supported her enough, she would find her way out. I spent years taking her to psychiatrists, therapists, counselors—anyone I thought could help.
But on her 18th birthday, she packed all her belongings into trash bags, threw them in her car, and left. She moved in with the boyfriend.
It wasn’t long before they were evicted. Then she was homeless—living behind dumpsters, panhandling at intersections to fund her next high.
We knew where she was highway camping. And often, in the middle of the night, when sleep wouldn’t come, her Daddy and I would get up, get in the car, and drive to where we thought she might be—just to see her. Just to know she was still alive.
Those years were filled with firsts.
The first time she was arrested. The first time I sat in an Al-Anon meeting. The first time I went to therapy, realizing I was drowning in the trauma of it all. The first time I felt relief that she was in jail—because at least she was safe.
The first time I understood, with absolute clarity, that I couldn’t save her.
The first time I watched her father’s heart break into a million pieces.
And at every step, I would think: Oh no. I know my daughter. She’ll never ______. That will be her line in the sand. She won’t cross it.
And then she did.
Rehab. Relapse. Rehab. Relapse. Days, weeks, months of silence. Then she’d resurface, sober, for a while—sometimes for years—before falling again. And every single time, my heart broke all over again.
In the winter of 2018, I stood on a beach in Grand Cayman, my feet sinking into the warm sand, the crystal-clear water lapping at my ankles. I watched the waves roll in, over and over, and thought:
“I have cried an ocean of tears. Oceans and oceans of tears. And yet… they never seem to end. They just keep coming.”
Grief is like the tide.
There are times when the waves don’t threaten to pull me under. When I can breathe again. But then, without warning, the sorrow rises—grief for all that has been lost in her life. In ours.
Because grieving the living is one of the hardest things a person can do.
Yes, she is my Wayward Daughter.
And though she is lost, she is still mine.
She is brilliant. Beautiful. Crazy smart. She has a wicked sense of humor. And I love her with everything I have, with everything I am.
She is one of only three people in this world to have heard my heartbeat from the inside.
And yet, I had to learn to take care of myself. I had to shift my mindset, rewire my subconscious thought patterns—because that’s where real, lasting change happens. No one could do it for me.
To survive the trauma and PTSD that comes with loving an addict, I had to retrain my mind to navigate it instinctively, to find strength even in the darkest moments.
And though I’ve learned to set boundaries. Even though I’ve learned to stop enabling. I still see her every week or so. I pick her up. I take her to buy groceries. I take her to get some lunch. I bring her home to see her cats. I let her hug her Daddy.
Because I believe in keeping that thread of humanity tied to her.
If I cut that thread, she will have no one.
And someday, if and when she is ready, she knows she can call me.
But the choice—the change—has to come from her.
All I can do is love her. Right where she is.
With all her flaws, with all her mistakes, with all the pain she has caused… she is still mine.
And I will love her until my last breath.
If you are struggling with a wayward child… I would love to offer you help and support.
Finding Support Through Letting Go and Grief
Letting go and grief are natural parts of life’s journey, often coming in cycles. If you or someone you love is struggling with the emotional turmoil of addiction, know that you don’t have to face it alone.
At Mind Body Hypnosis, we can help you shift thought patterns, establish healthy boundaries, and navigate the complexities of addiction in your relationships. Visit www.tiffanicappello.com to learn more.
Take the first step toward healing—schedule an appointment today.
With compassion,
LynDel Long, C.Hyp. RTT. PRT
