Most of you are just waking up.

I’m still wearing the same clothes I put on after my shower yesterday morning. I couldn’t sleep last night.

A bunch of good friends came over last night. I had a little get together. I didn’t stress about it. I didn’t freak out about the way my house looked. I didn’t even worry about the food. Everything came together just fine. People arrived. We laughed. We had great conversations. New friendships were formed. It was a fantastic evening.

I checked my Blackberry after everyone left. I like to look at my calendar for the next day before I go to bed–to make sure I didn’t forget anything.

There were six missed calls on my phone.

I wasn’t able to get back in touch with the callers. It was late. But, I was able to get a little information. The thing is my parents were already in bed.

The news could wait until morning.

My mom could have one more peaceful night’s sleep before we start the whole routine all over again.

We’ve done this so many times before.

I’m just not used to my new role as the one who breaks the news.

And the fact that I’m not there to support them…I think that’s even harder.

There’s been an addict in my life for over twenty years.

I’ve locked my doors. I’ve hidden my purse. And I’ve been stolen from regardless.

I’ve been mad. I’ve cried. I’ve been hurt. I’ve been embarrassed and ridiculously angry.

I’ve pretended not to care.

I’ve done to Al-Anon, and yet the worry remains.

My sister has been “clean” for the past four years to the best of my knowledge. She might actually be finding the way to live with her addiction, but just one overheard conversation and my temptation to go into “she’s high again” mode jumps on my shoulders like one of Jack Hanna’s animals going after David Letterman.

My goal each time is just to keep the animal from taking a crap on my head.

Last night I overheard my son talking to his mom (my sister). I could hear him repeatedly asking her what she was talking about. Each time he said it I felt my shoulders pull higher and higher.

“Why isn’t she making sense?” “Is she slurring her words?” “Fuck, she’s using again.”

We learn in Al-Anon that the addicts’ problems are not ours–that we don’t have to react to them. But when you’re raising the addict’s child how can it not affect you?

I AM a mamma lion. Don’t mess with my kids or I’ll cut you.

I won’t think twice about it.

Even if you are my sister.

My parents divorced when I was 10.

I hesitated on that first sentence for a few seconds, because I have a difficult time referring to my initial father figure as my “parent.” I’m pretty sure he fed me and clothed me and loved me to the best of his ability, but his best just didn’t hold up. As a matter of fact, he ran dry on parenthood after twelve years or so.

He probably should have just adopted a dog.

My mom and I often discussed her first marriage as I was growing up. She had moved home right after nursing school because she had no money. Without money, she was without a car–and therefore a job. Without a job, she couldn’t afford a down payment for an apartment, so she married her high school sweetheart. She knew he wasn’t the right guy, but she felt like it was her only option.

My mom’s greatest wish for me was to grow up and gain the skills to be independent. She wanted me to fall in love, she wanted me to get married, she wanted me to have children, but not because I had no other choice.

The constant refrain when it came to dating or marriage was: Never commit to someone you want to change, because they never will.

When it comes to your children though things are different. You can’t walk away when your child makes awful decisions. You must try, as you have from the time they were small, to teach them the skills to make good choices.

But what if they never learn?

My sister’s battle with addiction began when she was an early teen. More than twenty years later, it’s still a constant battle. My parents (my whole family) went through all the stages–some taking much longer than others–denial, embarrassment, guilt, enabling, anger, support, grief and begrudgingly after many years and much heartache–acceptance.

There was nothing we could do to change my sister.

We couldn’t “fix” her no matter how badly we wanted to.

The choice to get better or let addiction claim her life was hers to make. All we could do was love her. We didn’t have to like who she was when she was using, all we could do was love the girl behind the addict.

So how do I reconcile these two messages about relationships? Honestly, until I started writing this post, I had never thought about the ways they contradict each other. Don’t love someone you want to change, yet you can still love someone even though you know you have no power to change them.

I guess I’m going to choose to focus on the central theme: love.

It would be tempting to ration the love I’m willing to share knowing how little control I have over the people I choose to give it to, but that’s not me. I just have to remember to give it freely –never with any strings attached–because they may just drag me places I don’t want to go.

This post was inspired by Julie’s Hump Day Hmmm. Check them out.

Sometimes you’re going along surviving French III, making headway with your parents to extend your curfew and next thing you know life is raining on your perfectly, poufy, hot-rolled hair. That’s how it seemed to me, at 16, when my sister’s life started spinning out of control toppling the rest of my family over with her.

Drug addiction is an ugly thing.

Screaming, emergency room visits, rehab, changing schools, yelling, rehab, calls from the police, running away, rehab, padlocks on bedroom doors, counseling, rehab… A joke developed around the house.

Me: Mom I can’t find the camera.
Mom: We used to have one.
Together: But it wasn’t nailed to the counter. {explosion of laughter}

An addict will pawn anything to get money for drugs, whether it belongs to them or not.

You might think we sound heartless having enjoyed a laugh while my sister was obviously suffering in such a profound way, but we had too. Daily life was too hard. We all spent so many days, months–shoot years–walking on egg shells, not knowing what would happen next, worrying that we knew what would, that we needed a little levity just to cope.

Humor is a tactic my family’s employed a number of times over the years to avoid drowning in the buckets of shit that have been poured over our heads. I think it’s why one of my favorite movie scenes is the one in Steel Magnolia’s when Sally Field is cursing the world over her daughter’s coffin and Olympia Dukakis offers up Shirly MacLaine’s face for a smack. The relief of laughter after heaving sobs is like a cleansing shower.

Life sucks at times and we all need a way to figure out how to keep going. And this is all a very long way of explaining why I nominated Kris from I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Wino for the October Perfect Post award. The woman understands the importance of a good laugh.