Hope

Hope. It's such a simple word. Four letters, one syllable. Simple. And yet, it carries such a burden between an addict and the person who loves them.

I can't even count the number of times my mom went to rehab when I was a young girl. I can't count the number of times she passed out while I was visiting her. I can't count the number of times I hoped and prayed she would be sober enough just so I could at least get to her house and see her. My dad never discouraged me from visiting her. I was always told yes when I asked. And I always left disappointed. I wouldn't go for a long time, then I would get hopeful again. So I would ask to go. And it would be even worse than before. Hope was the anxiety that lived in the form of butterflies in my stomach. Hope was the lies I told for her. I had so. much. hope. And it was a constant disappointment. 

One day I simply stopped praying for her. I couldn't do it anymore. I accepted that the choices she made were her own and I couldn't do anything about it. I accepted that the bottle was more important than I was and I stopped visiting.

Throughout the years times would come up when she would reenter my life. My heart was hard and my spirit was unforgiving. I had to preserve the little bit of myself that I had left. I would go to visit and I would leave disappointed. I tried not to have Hope so I wouldn't feel the disappointment, but there's a funny thing about Hope with an addict. It won't go away. It simply refuses to quit. You may think you have no Hope, that you've given up, but you do. It's there. 

To be honest, I don't understand it. I don't understand why it's there if it doesn't do any good anyway. That's what I'm dealing with the most about her death. I hoped so much that she would finally find freedom. I accepted that I couldn't fix her. I accepted that I wasn't enough. I thought I had no Hope for her. And yet, when the call came, and I found out that drugs were still very much a part of her life, I was devastated. Not only did she die an addict, rather than a recovering addict, but now she's gone and there really is no hope. She will never find freedom from her addictions that ravaged her. 

It's tragic and heartbreaking and unrelenting to think about. She was a 58 year old grandmother and she died addicted to drugs. 

I keep remembering her love for Worship TV. She loved to read her Bible and watch pastors preach on television. As much as she hated herself, she loved God. So maybe there is Hope. There's Hope that she's finally experiencing freedom from her addictions. She's finally feeling beautiful and released from this world that was so ugly for her. I know that one day we will be reunited, but honestly, I Hope that I don't even recognize her. I Hope she is so perfect in her new life and so full of joy and praises and peace that I'll only believe it's her when I hear her laugh.