It’s not uncommon in discussions about the disease of addiction to focus on the person with this brain disease. But addiction is a family disease because interactions with the person developing the disease [addiction is a developmental disease] affects every member of a family as they try their best to help the person stop.

Today’s guest post is by a mother and her son, Anita Baglaneas Devlin and Michael Devlin Jr.

Mike is the Recreation and Recovery Coordinator at Gaston Transitional Sober Living House in Dallas, Texas, where he is advocating for young men to reach long term recovery, and Anita is the Executive Producer/Development for Michael Mayler Films/Television Division and writes the blog, OnFireAt50.com.

Michael has the disease. Anita tried to stop it. And over the course of their journey, their other family members were affected, too. Anita and Michael’s post takes shape as an excerpt from their new book, S.O.B.E.R.*

To learn more about their book, visit Anita’s website or send Anita an email at adevlin1313@gmail.com.

A PEEK IN TO “S.O.B.E.R.*” An acronym for Son Of a Bitch Everything’s Real by Anita Baglaneas Devlin and Michael Devlin Jr.

 

Authors Anita Baglaneas Devlin and Michael Devlin Jr. co-wrote this book to share their story of the family disease of addiction.

This excerpt reflects the format of how we wrote our story side by side. The day I received the call that my son was missing, I was petrified. When he didn’t return my calls or texts I was beyond angry. I started leaving him voicemails yelling and screaming at him. I had no clue how bad things were since he was away at college in Vermont. Thankfully a friend forced me to shift gears and to send the text that I believe saved my son’s life that day. My level of anxiety had made rational parental decision making impossible.

Anita
I still remember where I was, the exact aisle in the grocery store and what sat on the shelves, when my phone rang. “Hey, Mom. I think there’s something wrong with Mike,” Alex said.

“What?” I stopped. There was something about the adult tone she was using that made me very nervous. Frozen in place, I clutched the half-full shopping cart. I was afraid to let go.

“I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m worried. I just told Dad. His roommate called and said he can’t find him. That no one knows where he is.” I couldn’t speak. There was a moment of heavy silence. “We need to find him,” she pleaded.

It was the call I had been afraid of for a long time that I kept secretly hidden in my mind. The dread I kept locked up tight in a vault.

Between hiding things from my husband and my daughter Alex being so far away, I felt very alone and scared. My anger for my son was so unbearable at that point that I couldn’t wait for something to happen to make him realize things had to change. I was so tired of being handcuffed to the heavy dread that I actually felt paralyzed with fear on certain days. The only thing that frightened me more was that I had no idea what to do to help my son. I felt completely useless, which was something I was not used to. I knew that nothing would work until Mike wanted the help. I had to wait and pray no one would die before that happened.

Mike
I had no money to buy coke and sell to people, or even to get any dope to get loaded, so it shouldn’t have been that hard to make a fresh start, only I wasn’t going to give up that easily. I was a selfish, dishonest, manipulative drug addict. Had having no money ever stopped me before? Had a firm resolution to stop using drugs and alcohol ever kept me sober before? No! And it wasn’t about to this time. So what mischievous schemes could I come up with this time?

“OK, what can I sell?” My MacBook Pro, a few iPods, and a few other trinkets. Perfect! I was then able to find a quick fix, and with OxyContin so expensive, I had to resort to some low-quality heroin. However, it gave me what I was looking for: the will and strength to bring down whoever I could while I was on this spiral of self-sabotage. So I stole, and I stole a lot from roommates and friends alike, and continued to sell their computers and instruments. “They should have seen it coming,” I’d say. “I’ll hopefully be dead in a week anyway,” I’d sadly tell myself. I was trying to make this last run the end of the road for me. I saw no other choice.

I began to go to the homeless shelter and soup kitchen around the corner from my house. This was not to help out but to seek refuge and stay out of the way of anyone I may have robbed. “Clever,” I thought to myself, “no one would think that I could have fallen low enough to have to stay at a homeless shelter. They’ll never find me here.” This pattern continued for the first two weeks. By the end of that second week, a series of bad decisions and events would soon seal my fate.

Panic was right by my side, but still an awkward and prideful cockiness followed. I had a friend pick me up by an old buddy’s house while I hid in the snow, thinking that every headlight that went by was someone out to get me. Then my friend suddenly pulled up. First stop was finding a ticket to Hawaii, where, if I survived all this, I would go to start yet another new life. However, until the departure in two days, I would find myself at a broken-down Motel 6, where I would seek protection and refresh my drug supply during my last day in town.

Then the text from my mother came,

“Son, please let me know you are OK. I love you and I need to know that you’re OK.”

I had written her saying,

“No one can help me.”

My mother? After all I’d put her through? She’s still there? She’s worried?

It was as if someone somewhere punched me square in the face and poured ice cold water down my back. Sheer surrender shrouded me, and those “to hell with-its” that always led to the next fix suddenly became a good thing. I was scared out of my mind and finally admitted to myself that I wasn’t so tough. I needed my mother. I needed those who cared for me. I needed the people I had forcefully pushed away for so long.

I wanted to be a part of a family again and learn to live rather than be constantly waiting. It was then, as I polished off the rest of my pills, that I realized I wanted there to be a tomorrow. It was the first step. But it was sure as hell not going to be the last.

That’s when I made the call.