My Resurrected Heart:

November signals the end of Daylight Saving Time. Now, in the autumn of my life, I have finished writing this memoir. My story of my codependent lifestyle mirrors the annual spring forward, fall back ritual. In painful detail, I have highlighted how my decisions and beliefs shifted from hope to despair and back again—always dependent on the addict’s mood. Manipulating time and events was something I thought I did well. In high school, when boyfriends rejected my advice, I moved on. Friends called me fickle. They didn’t know I was searching for the one boy who needed me. Whether by nature or nurture, I began to perfect my enabling skills at an early age. In my senior year, Bob, the tall, handsome quarterback, showed an interest. After several dates, I realized he had one problem: he drank a little too much. Bob needed someone to take care of him and tell him when he’d had enough to drink. My suggestions fell on numbed ears. Still, someone had to get him home safely, so I volunteered. Years later, I made it official. On our wedding day—for better or worse—I signed on to supervise his sobriety. Or so I thought. In the game Pick Up Sticks, the goal is to pick up the scattered plastic sticks without touching the surrounding pieces. Initially, the task is easy. You concentrate on the sticks that spread out away from the pack and continue inward. But the real test comes when you try to pick up the sticks nested so close together it is impossible to lift one stick without disturbing another. So it is with addiction. At first, I was able to pick up after the easier, less intrusive incidents Bob’s drinking caused. I drove him home when he had too much to drink. When he fell asleep on the sofa with a lit cigarette between his fingers, I was dexterous enough to pick the “cancer stick” out of his hand without waking him. I would not allow our family secrets to extend outside the walls of our home. I was determined to control the uncontrollable. Then my husband’s alcoholic behavior escalated and challenged my capability. Just like Pick Up Sticks, my real-life contest came down to picking up the sticks that clustered and zigzagged on top of each other. There was no way to pick, pull, or lift one erratic incident without shifting the entire pile. Tired of playing games I could not win, I turned to support groups, family, and friends. Their kindness demonstrated that involvement with healthy, caring people is a critical part of recovery. I had to relearn that it was okay to trust them; I did not have to be afraid to have a close relationship with those who loved me. Included in Pick Up Sticks is a “helper” stick. Players use this “helper” to lift and remove a selected stick from the pile. In my life, I found a Helper I could trust. My help comes in the power of the Holy Spirit. He gathered me from the heap of despair and gently lifted me higher each day. I will ask the Father, and He will give you another Helper, that He may be with you forever; that is the Spirit of truth (John 14:16-17 NASB).