I love my son enough to have taken him to therapy, watched him refuse therapy, and still…loved him anyway.
I love my son enough that when all his father would do was say, “he’s gotta figure shit out on his own…” I scooped him up and drove him through the night to rehab, paid for that rehab, then gave him a safe home, a place to focus on staying sober in the midst of a pandemic, with no expectation that he would contribute in any financial way.
I love my son enough that I helped him enroll in community college courses for the summer, paid the tuition for them, and did not expect repayment when he just couldn’t complete them. I told him if he wants to try again, he’ll have to figure out how to pay for it on his own.
I love my son enough that when he demanded that he could handle this money on his own, I let him.
Just like I wrote.
But that doesn’t mean it isn’t painful to watch him squander it while my other kids make better choices.
That isn’t codependency, it’s reality, and reality is tough. It’s not enabling his behavior to mourn a bad decision, but it is difficult to stand by and watch while a bad decision is made nonetheless.
A public shaming would certainly be to say, “My son, whose name is…” which would fly in the face of every anonymous meeting he has never attended anyway, and I get that.
Love takes lots of shapes, and so does this disease. I won’t pillory my son, but I’ll write about our journey, even the damage along the way.