Holes Dug by Grief
When my husband and I found my brother deceased inside his apartment, slumped over a sofa while reaching for a heroin pipe, I told my parents not to come. After watching them manage Brad's drug addiction from an opposing goal line for over twenty years, I'd learned codependency habits. I'd become proficient at fixing other people's problems to shield them from experiencing pain.
The firefighters wheeled Brad out on a gurney in the same Z shape we found him. I couldn't bear Mom and Dad to witness the horrendous image. My adored older brother's body appeared chalky and stale. The autopsy suggested he had been dead two days, though the coroner couldn't confirm the exact day he died—which still boggles my mind. Heroin and other substances had ravaged his body.
Maybe you've observed a loved one destroying their body with drugs or alcohol and wondered about the effects inside them.
"Don't come; I'll handle it," I said to Mom and Dad. I did handle that day, but I didn't handle myself with kindness in the following weeks or months. Five years later, I experienced clinical depression. Instead of patching the holes dug by the grief of my brother's loss, I buried my emotions.
Immediately after Brad died, I shifted into fix-it mode and cruised on autopilot. I was four months pregnant, tending my growing belly, my toddler at home, my part-time job, my house, my husband, and my parents, whom I dearly loved.
We all adored "clean" Brad but hated his addiction and the hell it put us through. It sucks to admit—and don't hate me—but maybe there was even some relief knowing his horrendous battle was over.
Does this release response resonate with you? I'd love to hear your comments.
Not surprisingly, Dad asked the same questions repeatedly, trying to understand what had happened to our loving home and where he had gone wrong. Mom became quieter, her life grew smaller, and her health deteriorated over time—breast cancer, stroke, Lewy-body dementia—I'm convinced that was a result of navigating her grief and the stress of Brad's lies and manipulation, of living in a perpetual tug-of-war by covering for Brad and lying to Dad at times, as an unwitting double-agent.
Through a distant lens, I'm not surprised to see that my parents had a codependent relationship with Brad.
But Mom adored her grandkids, and I frequently paraded them over to Grandma and Grandpa's house, where Mom babysat and soaked up their childhood joy. I did everything I could to control the situation, bandage my despair, and help Mom and Dad find happiness again by planning trips, dinners, or shows—by trying to manage Mom's emotions while Dad kept busy, out with friends.
Maybe you have a similar story where you've been attempting to control everyone's behavior to prevent them or yourself from feeling the losses piling up. You may know the pain and energy it takes.
Later I found myself in our newly rented townhouse surrounded by unpacked boxes. I was emotionally spinning, rocking back and forth, barely able to breathe. I'd landed in a deep depression—something unfamiliar—and spent my days ruminating on the perfect storm of things I could not control in my life.
I started taking meds and going to therapy while forcing myself to make my young kids' meals, handle their basic needs, and put one foot in front of the other.
Have you ever been in such a dark place that you could barely manage your daily life?
Therapy taught me that I never grieved my brother's death.
Instead, I'd become super codependent in my relationships, FOMO (Fear of Missing Out), controlling and micro-managing—it's all I had. Some people fill their holes with alcohol, drugs, or other damaging behaviors. My desperate grip on people filled me up. It's how I coped. It became an addiction.
After I did the work to learn about myself and why I responded the way I did, I began to make choices each day that helped me climb out of the abyss. Grieving. Journaling. Praying. Therapy.
I took baby steps over many years, and patching holes eventually placed me in a healthy place. Now I'm editing my manuscript about being the sibling of an addict, leading workshops on codependency, and speaking about recovery.
That's how we find freedom, one day, sometimes one moment at a time. My family is all gone now. But I've patched those caustic holes that grief left inside me. The first step began with recognizing my denial . . . but that was not available until my life cratered around me. Isn't that true with most recoveries?
I invite you to reply or comment if you've been there, too.