Eight Days in May

The Aaron Meyer Foundation journey connects me with families who experience the chaos of addiction. Where I once spent my time in selfish pursuits, I now find more satisfaction sharing with people who still have a chance to positively affect the future by changing their lives. Some are young persons at various points along the way of recovery, and some are parents or affected family members. Others are professionals working on solutions and counseling. I miss Aaron so deeply that I can feel a hollow space in my chest and the connections with people take up some of the space some of the time.

The more I learn about addiction, the more bewildered I am. My world is filled with people who have been touched by addiction. There can be no other disease that causes so much turmoil, pain, shame, hurt, rejection, and loss.

Someone mentioned to me in the winter of '03 that Aaron might have an addiction and my reaction was to cut them off immediately. Not my son. This was a behavior issue! I was wrong. We were deep into the shit and I didn't know anything. By the time I was ready to admit that my son was an addict many months had passed and we had only weeks left. April 15, 2005, I was preparing to go to Austin, TX and Aaron was battling temptations. I was still accusing him of poor decisions. Bewildered---both of us.

Last year during the countdown to May 10th, each day I felt the need to stop the slide to the fateful anniversary. This year I don't have the same desire to put on the breaks...I have evidence that it can't be done. I do feel ill about the approaching day. The left side of my head has a dull ache between my temple and my ear. Sometimes this fist size aaargghhh causes me to clench my teeth and then it rises to the top of my head where it could be released in a geyser of steam.... but there's no pressure release valve.

Birthday May 6th, anniversary May 10th, Mothers Day May 13th. That's a brutal stretch I know I can't stop from arriving, but maybe I can leap over. Yes, maybe there is a way to skip those eight days in May.

In the medical terminology of professional grieve counseling, my preoccupation with next month is called--- living in the future. Addicts and mourners are cautioned against such projecting. Live in the present, we're told. Avoid living in the past and future. Unfortunately, the present and the future have too much of what I don't want and only the past holds our family as I wish it were.

Can't stop the hands of time. Can't go back. Can't stay here. Gotta walk one step at a time, one day at a time. I still want to run back two years.

Tom