One Day At A Time

Blossoming through the Muck of Sober Grief

Everyone keeps asking me how we are doing. My daughter’s mentally ill father is moving across the country, and he is taking his time dragging out the long, confusing goodbye. All I can say with honesty when people ask me how things are is that we are taking things one day at a time.

One day at a time is all I can manage right now. If I look too far ahead of that, all of the possibilities and questions swirl together into a clobbering headache, the sinking black hole of despair, and the rising panic of anxiety. One thing I know for sure though, the muck of sober grief, when you’re willing to be with it, is much easier to swim through than the concrete sludge of intoxicated, addicted, resisting, seesawing, unhealthy-coping grief.

The waves of pain still come, but without numbing and tuning out, they wash over us and keep moving, rather than pulling us under and holding us there. We can quench our thirst to be human by letting ourselves cry our tears, and with green smoothies hugs, boardgames, hikes, dinners with friends, horses, and silly television shows. Then, when we wake up in the morning, after a good night’s sleep, we aren’t hung over with relapse and recovering from trashing our bodies.

We are still trudging through the muck of uncertain grief. We fall asleep at night heavy with the weight of sadness and exhausted from surfing big feelings.

What I wouldn’t give to go back in time. To those days that felt hard then, but were so full of possibility. When her body was light enough that I could pick her up, even when she couldn’t hold up herself. When her eyes sparkled with easy joy and effervescence.

Now, she is halfway grown, and I know that my job as her mother is to let her find her own way to the surface. I am here for her at the end of the day, with gentle caresses, and bowls of ice cream. But I cannot smile for her. And I cannot unbreak her heart.

She is old enough to feel the emptiness of her father‘s sudden departure from her life. She is wise enough to let him go, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I can only keep stroking her hair and whispering that everything is going to be OK. And that I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. But silently, I worry, what if something does happen to me?

She wants us to move away from the home where we have lived for the past four years. While I know a fresh start will probably do us both some good, I am also grieving the loss of this refuge in nature. This sanctuary where I have learned to feel myself again. But I am willing to start over if it will help her heart feel the light of hope again.

I am angry. I want that light back without leaving. I want peace and rest without her father leaving. I wish she didn’t have to live in a world where men can’t be trusted to stay. I wish I could teach her how to be openhearted and protected at the same time, but I get why she wants to close her heart right now. I get why she wants to run away.

I was 20 years old when I experienced my first real heartbreak. She is only 10. I survived, because I knew there were other fish in the sea, but how will she survive? There aren’t other fathers. There is only the one she has, and he is leaving.

Men, answer me this. What are you thinking? How on earth can you leave your children behind? Is your pain and suffering really that great that abandonment is your only option? How can you stomach sucking the light from their eyes?

My ex-husband thinks he will be a better father to his daughter by leaving her. And since he is deeply wounded and emotionally abusive, I suppose this is true. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Okay, I’m done ranting for now.

Reader, I promise you this. I will not let her wallow in despair. I will teach her to hold her shoulders high with dignity and self-respect. I will show her that she is worth loving, and that she is worth staying home for. I will continue to shine brightly in my commitment to radical compassion and sobriety, so that one day the light may start to glimmer in her eyes again.

With grief, fresh starts are everything. So, even though my heart feels heavy a lot of the time, and people who ask how we’re doing don’t really want to hear all about it, I keep taking it one day at a time. I have stopped watering weeds and started tending the garden more carefully, because I know that this too shall pass and that we can love ourselves into a brighter tomorrow.

I have dropped lotus seeds everywhere and I know that they will blossom because there is plenty of muck for them to root into. Even if I can’t see them yet, I know there will be flowers because this morning, after heaving herself from bed and trying to keep it together after she spilled milk and cereal all over her favorite jeans, she put on clean clothes, brushed her teeth, did her hair, stepped outside into the sunlight, and then she smiled.

“It’s going to be such a beautiful day,” she said, brightly, tilting her face towards the sky. “I’m so glad it is finally spring.”

To her father, we will continue to take your leaving and your absence one day at a time, and one of these days we will get over you. Each time the sun rises we will move on, just a little more. So don’t you dare get out there and realize you have made a mistake and try to come crawling back. It’s too late for that now. The damage is done. Don’t you dare break her heart over and over again. Don’t you dare drag us through the mud any longer. We are willing to set you free, you must do the same for us.

I’m still angry about your choices, but I really am done ranting now. I hope you find the healing that you are searching for. Thank you for leaving us in the springtime, so that we can wake up each day to the sound of birds, watch the flowers bloom, and feel the warm sunlight on our cheeks when we step outside.

Sober grief is boundaried grief. It is a radical act of self-care, and a way of saying to the world, “No. I will not go down with this sinking ship. I will wear my lifejacket, and I will commit to being a strong swimmer and not letting myself drown.” Boundaried, sober grief allows you to place a container of care around your sadness, so that you can also give yourself moments to experience pleasure and joy.

To anyone who needs to hear this right now, you do not have to let generations of pain, addiction, abuse, and suffering darken your light. Even if your ancestors and past lovers let themselves sink into darkness and despair, it is still your birthright to shine brightly and stand in the sun and allow the renewal of a new morning to open your heart. It’s okay to take it one day at a time.

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