The Power of Dreams When Your Child is Addicted by Memoirist Elizabeth Silva
Posted by Kathleen Pooler/@kathypooler with Elizabeth Silva
Photo Credit: Matthew Prior, Brainy Quote
I often dreamt about my son when he was actively drinking and it was a reflection of my inner fears that were too hard to face in the light of day. He’s been sober now for the past five years but occasionally I dream about him relapsing and it fills me with terror, even today. Elizabeth captures the terror that parents of addicted children feel when they stand by helpless, yet hopeful that their child will survive.
Elizabeth is the author of a memoir, Another Cheesy Family Newsletter.
Welcome , Elizabeth!
Author Elizabeth Silva aka Patty Sisco
The Power of Dreams When Your Child is Addicted
I still remember the dream though it happened many, many years ago. … The dream, though sometimes fading like a wisp of smoke, still revisits me from time to time in one form or another and reminds me of the past. I don’t know much about the science of dreams except that I have a lot of crazy ones, and that the experts say they sometimes bring out tiny, buried details tucked away in our subconscious as the years pass…I will never forget this dream because it portrayed so intensely in precise, excruciating detail the fear and pain I had kept buried deep within me as I plowed through each day of my child’s dreadful heroin addiction, struggling to keep my sanity intact.
In this dream, I was walking into the foyer of a crumbling, neglected old apartment building like so many that provide the backdrop of TV detective shows and movies, as the SWAT team stealthily tiptoes in to bust another murderer, drug dealer, or gangster. The one difference between my dream and the TV cliché was the empty silence… As I glanced down, I saw that old white porcelain tile that looks like miniature chicken wire, and it was dirty, sticky, and cracked. The walls were covered with graffiti and who knows what other kind of filth, and unidentifiable trash had collected in the corners. But the most striking feature of the room was the lighting. It was a dim, eerie pale green that cast so many shadows throughout the area, I barely saw her standing all alone at the base of the stairs, leaning, almost sagging, against the newel post. She was wearing a short platinum wig and was dressed like a hooker. She WAS a hooker. Her micromini skirt revealed numerous bruises in various stages of healing on her still beautiful legs, and I knew that beneath her fake fur bolero her arms were scarred by track marks, a vestige of the habit that had turned her into this pitiful creature. Her face, though cast in shadow, was swollen from a black eye recently incurred at the hands of who knows who —boyfriend, pimp, dealer, john? All the above? Her complexion looked like the underbelly of a fish, sickly and white, with the slightest hint of green that almost glowed in the dark in that ghostly light. And her lips, full and blood-red, were the only hint of color in that other-worldly room. I could tell she didn’t want me to touch her the minute I walked in the door and started to approach her… So, I didn’t come any nearer, for fear that she would run away, though I so wanted to grab her hand and flee this horror show in any way possible. To drag her, if I had to, to sanity. But instead I just begged her to come with me. I pled with her to come with me. I gave her every reason that she should leave this hellhole and return to the warmth of her home and the child with the big, brown liquid eyes who so desperately wanted her mommy back. But reason is no longer a part of the addict’s psyche, and the pull of the poison is just too overwhelming, so she refused. She didn’t say a word – just slowly shook her now downcast head – over and over and over…
Photo Credit: Benjamin Lossius on Unsplash
Dreams are mostly visual experiences, but despite these images that remain clear in my mind, what I most remember was the actual physical pain…I don’t know how it feels to be stabbed, but the visceral pain that this emotional upheaval evoked seemed as intense as if she had produced a knife out of nowhere and plunged it in my belly. My sobs were so gut wrenching I doubled over and fell to my knees in helpless agony. The pain seemed so real … it WAS real. It was the manifestation of all the fear and anguish I had suppressed as I had tried to make it through each day. It was the crumbling face behind the mask I wore every day as I tried to be the strong, resilient woman everyone expected me to be. It was a grief so profound it brings tears to my eyes, even today. All the rage, disappointment, terror, regret, guilt, and crushing defeat that I just couldn’t express adequately in words were wrapped up in that dream. When I woke up I was exhausted and still aching from my sobs, still lingering in that half world between waking and sleeping, wondering if this incident had really occurred. But as the dream world faded and the real world stepped in, I realized that in my dream I had allowed myself to let go of my cover and just feel the naked pain. Her addiction was one of the few things over which I had no control, and the torture of helplessly watching my beautiful eldest child willingly fall into this dark chasm. with little hope of climbing out, could only be manifested in a dream. In the “real” world I could not abandon myself to this kind of self-indulgent grief for fear of never coming back. And I had to be a rock for her baby who just couldn’t understand why her mommy, who had once been her best friend, had become a stranger she rarely saw. So, I tucked the dream away safely in my subconscious and carried on as I always had… The memory of the dream and the intensity of the pain I experienced has burrowed into a little wrinkle in my consciousness like a tiny underground creature, and it pops out occasionally, in a flash of anger or doubt or fear, only to scurry quickly back to its hidey hole as I regain my composure. In perspective, I see it now as a reminder of how much we all love our children, even if we don’t like them anymore. It was a manifestation of the indescribable grief and helplessness I experienced when Kristine slipped out of our arms, and we realized we could no longer protect her as she stumbled along the path of self-destruction. I wouldn’t wish that pain on any parent, though way too many have shared it, and worse.
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Thank you, Elizabeth for sharing the raw pain of loving a child who is addicted. You show us how dreams can unlock the deep, painful feelings the parent of an addicted child often buries.
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About the memoir:
For decades, Elizabeth Silva has crafted an annual holiday newsletter to family and friends, summarizing her family’s year in light-hearted, witty prose. Little do her readers know, however, of the conflict and pain behind those season’s greetings full of optimism and cheer.
Another Cheesy Family Newsletter is a memoir covering a span of twenty years in Elizabeth Silva’s life, the years her oldest child struggled with mental illness and substance abuse. Contrasting with each chirpy letter is a narrative of the true, sometimes dark, events that really happened each year. Those stories, along with the family history that came into play in later years, present a picture of four generations of a family’s missteps and triumphs as they navigate the storms caused by addiction, co-dependence, and mental illness.
Amazon
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07CSLY1GT
Apple iBooks
http://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id1378750914
Barnes & Noble
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/another-cheesy-…/1128583507
Google Play
https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=aitZDwAAQBAJ
Kobo
https://www.kobo.com/…/ebo…/another-cheesy-family-newsletter
About the Author:
Elizabeth Silva grew up in a military family, living in multiple cities across the USA, then settled in Texas at age 17 where she attended college as an English major and developed a love of writing.
During her career as both a high school English teacher and a guidance counselor, she married , raised four children and is currently retired and living at home with her husband, son, two grandsons, two cats and a dog.
She is community contributor for her local metropolitan newspaper and an advocate for public education and children with autism.
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How about you? Have you worked out deep and painful feelings through your dreams?
We’d love to hear from you. Please join in the conversation below~
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Next Week:
Monday, 8/27/18:
“When Do You Know Your Memoir is Finished?”
August 2018 Monthly Newsletter: Updates, Memoir Musings, Max Moments
“The Lessons of Grief”
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