And in doing so I came to the finality of the situation: I too was an addict, for I had fallen victim to the desire to try and save them. It consumed me, the lies and manipulation, the wondering, and second-guessing. I became a slave to their addiction, and in doing so, found myself dark and gritty. Aching deep inside, for answers, for help, for recovery. For one more chance, for one more try. As it turns out, there’s a bit of cactus in us all.
You see, it took a long time, many years, to finally emerge from the place of salvation-giver. It isn’t up to me. I’m not the fixer of lives, I don’t heal addiction, I can’t, it’s not in my power. What is in my power? To love. To water the cactus. To remember and open my eyes to see what and who lives beneath the cloak of addiction.
Often times the wounds they leave us with in the wake of their choices are gaping, oozing. They hurt, with the pain of something that’s ripped open time and time again. The cactus deceives us with her flowers of red and magenta, and we hug again.
I believe that is the beauty in it, the flora. I believe if we can find it in ourselves to see the bloom, it’s quite possible that more addicts find their way. Too many are lost, too many are gone. Addiction claims the lives of our mothers and brothers and friends and children, each, and every, day.
I am no stranger to it. I am however, someone who once hated the cactus, every stage of it, but now, it has become something I choose to see as beautiful. I see the cactus plant with potential, with life.
If loving an addict is like hugging a cactus, I’ll bleed until the end of time.
This article originally appeared at AngieWarren.com.
