Book Excerpt

Wedding Running

                            Same Dress, Different Day: A Spiritual Memoir of Addiction And Redemption

by J. Van Heerden

Chapter 1: Cigarettes and Crayons

~ 2000 ~

“Why, my soul, are you downcast?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God.”

Psalm 42:11 (NIV)

Summer scorches Texans every single year. The August of 2000 is no exception. Dripping sweat, waiting for the gas pump to click off at the Chevron station, I’m even scorched on the inside. Driving Jon to rehab isn’t in my plans for this summer. I very much like for life to go as planned.

Glancing into the side mirror I catch a glimpse of him, squatting there next to another car, blasting cigarette smoke from one side of his mouth. During the five years and 363 days of our marriage, he’s never let me see him smoke. Our eyes meet. He shrugs and flicks the butt into the parking lot. I remember the countless times I’d lectured my students about the dangers of smoking. They were first graders – the same age he’d been when he started.

I’m a planner. I guess that’s the teacher in me. At seven, I knew my calling. Mother says I was born with a wristwatch and a clipboard in hand. In third grade, I forced my five-year-old sister, Ami, to listen to me read the entire Little House on the Prairie series. (Night after night, we’d snuggled side by side in my trundle bed along with the characters Laura, Mary, Ma and Pa long after Mom had called, “Lights out little girls.”) I often created checklists for daily hygiene habits and begged my teachers to give me extra workbook pages so that I could “play school” at home. Always a lover of order, structure, and routine, I’d planned my whole life before my age reached double digits. Today, those childhood dreams seem impossibly far away.

Just breathe, I remind myself as he opens the passenger door. Don’t say anything. Don’t think anything. Just drive and breathe. When I breathe, I can smell that lingering smoke. I feel angry. That smell represents betrayal. Although cigarettes aren’t the reason for this trip, they are the birthplace of a long journey leading to this day. No, this trip is about another, much more costly addiction…an addiction that is foiling my plans and destroying the good little life we’ve been making for ourselves.

Why do I feel so angry about that Marlboro, when I’m taking my husband to drug rehab for a cocaine addiction so deadly it could put him in the cemetery at any moment? My own emotions confuse me! Maybe I’m in denial; unable to process a drug addiction I’ve never seen in action and can’t wrap my brain around. Whatever the reason, I’m focused on the cigarette and ignoring the “elephant” in the car with me.

We barely speak as the miles melt beneath my tires. Part of me longs to lecture about how nicotine exacerbates the desire for other drugs, but he’d already growled the “I can only do one thing at a time” warning. As usual, my expectations are too high. I just want to fix everything right now. I want our life back. I want my husband back.

Arriving at Blue Sky, the detox/rehab facility, which did not appear to match its happy summer-camp-sounding name, we are greeted warmly by Dora, an extremely cheerful staff member. I receive information regarding visiting hours, phone calls and my role in my husband’s recovery process. (Leave him alone and let him “work the program.”) With a thick, stapled packet on cocaine addiction in my hands and an odd mixture of hope and despair in my heart, I hug my husband, shut little-too-happy-hab’s door and face the Texas heat. That’s it. I’ll see him in two weeks when I return for supervised visitation.

I’m Juliet – also known as Julie, Jules, JuJu and a number of other variations of the Italian name my mother gave me after seeing Zeffirelli’s 1968 rendering of Shakespeare’s famous tragedy. Sometimes I’ve wished I could be someone else, with another name altogether, someone whose life is more comedy than tragedy. The events of the moments I just relived while writing the above paragraphs marked a major turning point in the history of this regular churchgoing girl from Texas. Life never was quite the same after that. I wanted it to be. Tried to force it to be. But it just wasn’t. Ever.

Opening my car door, I tossed the addiction information to the back and wilted into the driver’s seat. With the seat belt’s click, my internal dam burst. Anger and embarrassment poured from my soul as I drove and wept. Frustration and fear mingled with those tears as I howled to my heavenly Father. This was not the first time I’d taken the term “cry out to God” literally, but it was the first time in a long time that I cried with hope that things might improve.

It has to get better, God. Isn’t marriage supposed to bring joy? It’s always been a little tough, but this past year and a half has been horrible! I didn’t know he was using drugs! How could I be so blind? How do I face the people in my life with a truth I can no longer hide and can barely comprehend?

I dreaded explaining to my church school colleagues that I’d be attending the teacher’s convention alone. “No. He won’t be coming with us. I’m sorry Principal Steve, I guess it’s just you and a bunch of females again this year.” I dreaded responding to well-intentioned inquiries about my husband’s absence from church. “Yes, I’ll tell him you missed him again today. Unfortunately we won’t be able to host the Friday evening worship at our home this week.” I feared facing his boss, who served on the School Board which hired me and whose children I’d taught to read. “He pawned your tools to buy drugs? Oh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea that was going on. How can we ever pay you back for your loss?” Trepidation trampled my tiny spark of hope, long after the tears dissolved into deep heaves.

How do I do this, Lord? How will Jon’s sudden 28-day disappearance affect our reputation in this church and this community? What will I say to my sister? You know she’s been really upset lately by Jon’s strange behavior. Now I understand her probing questions. Oh, how am I going to hold my head up and keep it all together?

~School ~

Colorful student workbooks were stacked neatly on my u-shaped teaching table. Small desks in pods of three filled the center of the room, while student activity stations lined the outside walls. I loved organizing and arranging my spacious classroom. I’d taught here for four years. This space felt like home to me. In fact, I think I spent more time within these walls than at our home. The structure. The routines. The little people who brought joy and life to this place and to my very soul; these were the things I could count on. These were just as sure as the familiar contents of my teacher desk, or the absolute of butterflies in tummies the first day of school.

Tearing the “to buy” checklist from my yellow legal pad, I took a quick survey of the room before flicking off the light. Everything is coming together. I want to be ready before teacher’s convention. Just one more trip to Walmart, and I’ll be set.

I love buying school supplies. Love pressing a bunch of super sharp number 2 pencils against my palm, making them all even. Love the little scissors with rounded noses and the tiny flat tips of brand new Crayola crayons. Something about loading up my shopping cart with washable markers and the familiar orange-topped Elmer’s glue bottles makes me happy.

That day, I desperately wanted to be happy. I wanted to forget about the yesterday that had altered my world forever. Longing to get lost for a moment in the “Back to School” aisle, I stopped by Walmart on the way to my empty home, numbing my pain by pawing through bins of glue sticks and pens. On my way to the register I picked up a black and white composition book; you know, the ones with rounded corners and marbled cardboard covers with a line for your name right on the front? Why not? They’re on sale for only a quarter each.

Recently, I rediscovered my stash of journals and composition books. Sifting through them was equally painful and cathartic. The neatly dated entry that fits into this narrative reads like this: Tomorrow is Jon’s and my six-year anniversary. Yesterday I took him to a drug detox and rehabilitation program. This is an incredibly difficult time, but I am hopeful that Jon will be able to submit to the “treatment” and allow himself to be helped. On August three and four he nearly overdosed on cocaine. On the fifth he realized that he could die and by the sixth he was ready to finally admit that he has a problem bigger than he can beat alone.

I feel so angry that he has used more than five thousand, five hundred dollars of our house money (we were in the process of building a new home on some land we’d purchased the summer before) on cocaine! I am shocked and surprised that he is not dead. I feel angry, sad, discouraged and hopeful all at the same time. School starts in one week. I’m not nearly ready. I have so much to do and so many distractions. I am praying for Jon constantly. He has become such an incredible liar – selfish, deceiving, conniving, thieving, angry, sick person.

The house is peaceful without him. I don’t have to worry about him at night or anytime because he can’t be doing bad stuff. Everyone has been so kind. I am thankful to God for Christian friends. Larry and James (Jon’s employers) even promised to take Jon back to work when he gets out.

I’m going to have to be so clear about what I want and need and expect. I don’t even know all of it, except no more drug use, or he is out of the house!

The rest of that sad little journal entry breaks my heart in hindsight. I can see how bad things in my marriage really were and how much I longed for everything to be okay. At the time I didn’t realize that I couldn’t mandate someone who was not okay to be okay. My seven-item checklist penciled into a twenty-five cent composition book from Walmart didn’t mean a “hill of beans” to my drug-addicted husband. I should have considered and questioned some of those items long before he ever became my husband. But we were young then. I was naïve. Isn’t hindsight painfully 20/20?

That night, I just needed the familiar comfort of a checklist.

So I wrote:

  1. No more drug use
  2. No more smoking
  3. Daily talking and prayer time
  4. Meet my emotional, physical, financial needs (I told you I was naïve.)
  5. Everyone made right with and paid back
  6. I get full control of every penny
  7. Honesty in all dealings

I’m sure I slept better, having written my list and said my prayers. I know that God in heaven witnessed my hurting heart. I remember the comforting presence of His sweet Spirit during that dark and lonely time. I wish I had known then, the things I’ve come to learn. I suspect, though, I wouldn’t be the me I am, and I wouldn’t know the things I know, if it weren’t for the catalyst of that dreadful Texas August day when I drove my husband to drug rehab for the first time.

 

 

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Happy Codependent Mother’s Day

“Oh Julie, you have rug burns on your heart.” Eight months after boarding a homebound plane in Ukraine with my Honey and our newly adopted teenagers, I’m crying on the phone to my friend, searching for ways to describe the festering ache in my soul. I wince as her words trigger the memory of oozing rug burns sticking to my pantyhose. I was an athlete thirty years ago, but my knees still carry the scars.

Our high school gymnasium doubled as a multi-purpose building for many student activities, including church services, so the “Lady Tartans” played basketball and volleyball on carpet. Yes, CARPET! Visiting teams eyed our court in disbelief during pre-game warm-ups. I’m certain the Tartans wielded slightly more than a home game advantage. We were used to our unusual turf’s effect on bouncing balls and the teenage knees of scrappy girls who played to win.

Rug burns rake off a person’s protective skin, creating wounds that seep blood or pinkish semi-clear liquid. Time eventually creates a thin crust over each burn’s surface. When my team played two home games in a row, there was no time for our rug burns to heal before we again sacrificed knobby teen knees for rebounds or game points. I learned the hard way what happens when rug burns get layered—yellow white pus forms under the scab and oozes out when pressure is applied to the wound. Double rug burns are painfully slow to heal.

“Yes. Yes, I do have rug burns on my heart,” I reply. My friend understands rug burns. She was a Lady Tartan, too. She’s also lived a life story similar to mine.

After we stop talking, I turn off the bedside lamp and lay awake long into the night. I’m alone. My family is home. I’m traveling—sharing my testimony of redemption and restoration, sowing hope in hearts wounded by addiction.small plane

Do you even believe your own message? I’m stunned by the thought, as it strikes deep in my core.

Of course I do. But, I’m hurting and I don’t know how to fix this, God. How did we get here? What could I have done differently? What do we do now? Why don’t they let me love them anymore?

I toss questions toward heaven with the fervency of a baseball-pitching machine, not expecting Anyone to really answer.

I’m still sore from the sting of the H-word my son spewed just days before I left for this trip. “He doesn’t mean it,” the well-meaning people say. “Don’t take it personally.” Not helpful.

He felt hatred towards me. That’s why he said it. Of course he meant it. He also means it when he says he doesn’t want me to hug him or touch him. When he forbids me to say, “I love you” or to demonstrate any connection or affection at all. He means it. And it’s mean. And it burns my heart raw.

Maybe I could blow it off, recognize that it’s coming from a place of deep pain and trauma-triggered fear. Maybe it wouldn’t fester so bad if that were the only wound. But it’s not. There’s more. There’s my other boy-turned-man-overnight. Trying his wings, testing his limits, telling Honey and me all kinds of things we never wanted to hear. Building a wall a mile high and six feet thick to keep us distanced from his heart.

Here you are, talking on TV about recovery from codependency like you’ve got all the answers, when just yesterday you relapsed into fear-based control and tried to be somebody’s Holy Spirit. Again. Multitude of Counselors

The enemy taunts me with half-truths. Tries to silence me with guilt and shame. I cringe. It’s true. I project my pain from the past onto my kids when their rejection triggers old wounds that still ooze pus and blood. Wounds that stick to my emotional Spanx and rip the skin right off my soul, leaving me tender and vulnerable.

I am not healed yet!

There. I’ve said it. I’m not a perfect pastor’s wife, mother, daughter, friend or person. I’m painfully aware of my shortcomings, especially when pointed out by those who know me best. When I am afraid, I try to control circumstances or people. When angry, I punish with silence. When I am rejected, I tend to withhold affection for fear of further rejection. Sometimes I isolate. Or use guilt to manipulate. When I don’t know what else to do, I work, work, work. I am a mess. I need Jesus. Every moment. Of every day. I cannot do this on my own.

In preparation for taping this televised program, I reviewed the first Step of the Twelve Steps of Codependents Anonymous: “I am powerless over other people.” Once more, I am humbly reminded that I cannot make “minding other people’s business” my way of life, (even if those other people are my own family). I cannot put off my own good by determining to control, advise or guide others. I must surrender my compulsive drive to “fix the unfixable.” I am not anyone’s Jesus. By God’s grace, I will choose (once again) to ask myself two questions before jumping into control or rescue mode:

  1. Did this person ask me for this help?
  2. What does this have to do with God’s will for me?

Father in heaven, I choose to release my sons and the time frame for their emotional healing and spiritual growth to Your care. I choose to focus on my own spiritual progress and maintain healthy boundaries in all my relationships. I will not sacrifice my personal needs to meet the needs of another person, nor will I resort to unhealthy giving or serving from a place of fear or manipulation. I will allow You, God to be God in my life and in the lives of my sons. Thank You for your grace and your mercy, which is beautifully new every morning. Thank you for Your ability to heal the layered rug burns on all of our hearts. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

codependency lovingonpurpose

What about you, dear Friend? Are you expending valuable emotional, financial and physical energy rescuing, enabling or persecuting someone whose life is out of control because of a chemical or other addictive dependency? Are you allowing fear to drive your actions as you try to save a drowning loved one? Have you lost your sense of self by allowing your boundaries to be pushed back or knocked down completely? Do you need to take CODA’s Step 1 and admit that you are powerless over another person and that your life has become unmanageable? If so, it’s not too late to come out of denial. Take that Step. Admit it to yourself. Tell Jesus. Confide in a friend. Begin your journey to wholeness today. You are worth it! You are so totally worth it.

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