Ten Weeks

Recovery is a strange thing. In some ways, it’s like watching a child grow.

At first, you count the days. Seven days. Fourteen days. Thirty days. Then the weeks become months, and eventually, hopefully, the months become years.

Today, my son is ten weeks clean.

We’ve been here before. We’ve celebrated longer periods of recovery, only to watch everything fall apart again. So while ten weeks is something to celebrate, I know better than to assume what comes next.

But ten weeks is ten weeks, and I’m proud of him.

This hasn’t been easy. He’s living away from home, building a routine, and learning to live without many of the things he once took for granted.

A few weeks ago, he told us that not being able to come home was perhaps the lowest point he’d reached. He wasn’t sure what rock bottom meant, but wondered whether this was it.

I don’t know. I’ve stopped trying to figure that out.

What I have noticed is a change in how he talks about addiction. In the early weeks, there was still a tendency to talk about the past almost as though there were something exciting about it. Now there’s more recognition of what addiction has cost him and what rebuilding his life might involve.

He’s beginning to think about work, independence, and getting back some of the things he’s been living without. Part of me thinks he should wait longer, but that’s his decision, not mine.

We’ve continued our weekend visits. He comes over, we have lunch, talk, sometimes play a game, and enjoy a few hours together.

Lately, those visits have been getting shorter.

After dropping him off this weekend, my wife and I were talking about it. My first instinct was to wonder whether he didn’t want to spend as much time with us.

Then I remembered visiting our own parents when we were younger. We’d arrive, eat something, catch up, spend some time together, and eventually say goodbye. We had our own lives to get back to.

Perhaps he’s beginning to find that same independence.

And if he is, isn’t that what we’ve wanted for him all along?

Our conversations are changing too. I still ask how he’s feeling, but we spend less time talking about recovery. I’ve also stopped asking about his plans.

When are you going to look for work? When will you get your phone back? What’s your next step?

Those questions used to come naturally. I wanted to know everything because I thought knowing would somehow help me stay ahead of whatever might happen.

Now, when I catch myself wanting to ask, I sometimes laugh.

Stay with the moment. Just enjoy your son. Let tomorrow arrive.

And something interesting has happened along the way.

I’m beginning to feel happy again.

There wasn’t some great revelation. I’ve simply noticed that I’m enjoying things again, spending less time worrying about what might happen next, and getting on with my own life.

But the fear hasn’t disappeared.

There’s still a deep worry that this could all fucking blow up again. Another relapse, another phone call, another crisis. We’ve been through enough of them that those memories never feel very far away.

I think about my daughter. Every time she gets into her car, something terrible could happen. But I don’t spend my days worrying about her getting into an accident.

I let her live.

My son’s history makes that harder. There’s a reason the fear is there. But worrying about another relapse today won’t prevent one tomorrow.

If something happens, we’ll deal with it then.

For years, I wanted an ending to all this. A point where he would be clean, independent, working, and everything could finally return to normal.

But there really is no ending until the end. Life keeps changing, and we keep living through it.

Today, he’s ten weeks clean. He’s doing the work, making his own decisions, and beginning to find his footing.

I’m proud of him, and I’m beginning to enjoy my own life again.

Earlier today, I rewrote a song from a previous period of his recovery. Back then, it was about the future I hoped he would have. This time, I changed the ending:

I don’t know where your road will lead,
Or what tomorrow brings.
But today you kept on walking,
And that means everything.

Sometimes a moment is just a moment.

And this one is worth banking.

Stay with the moment. Let tomorrow arrive.