Bit of a Long Post

I come from a long line of co-dependents and enablers, and the more I love someone, the more I act true to form, though I’m not as bad about it as I used to be. Left to my own devices, I probably would wallow in sadness until Hell became an ice-skating rink. But there is some little voice of common sense that always yells in my psyche’s ear, “ENOUGH! Move on, willya?!”

That voice of reason has jerked me up short and pointed out that my actions, conceived of love and compassion, have--in fact--enabled my daughter to continue her self-destructive behaviors. What complicates my response to her are my feelings for my grandson, who has no control over how his mother chooses to live.

I have evicted my daughter and her son from my home for the second time in his short life. The first time was when he was seven years old. They went to a shelter for the homeless. As I drove away after dropping them off, I made the mistake of looking in my rear-view mirror. Donovan was waving good-bye, his little face struggling not to cry. That was the first time my heart broke into a billion shards, and I cried for a week afterwards, was depressed for months. I vowed then that I would never do that again, leave him at a shelter.

My daughter said later that kicking them out was the best thing I could have done, because it made her wake up to how she was hurting herself and her son. She managed to take care of the two of them fairly well for three or four years after they moved from the second shelter they lived in. Then life overwhelmed her again, only she tried to hide how hard a time she was having. She struggled on for a couple more years, then had a breakdown last year and checked herself in to a crisis psychiatric center last August. Donovan came to live with me while his mother was away.

When she was released, she came to my home, as well, because she had lost their apartment, again. I set some ground rules for living here, to which she agreed to adhere.

Soon thereafter, Donovan was placed in a residential treatment facility that specializes in children with emotional and developmental-delay problems, such as Asperger’s Syndrome. This move, which I initially protested, turned out to be exactly what he needed, and served him well. (My protest was based on my recognition that my daughter didn’t want to deal with his problems. This is part of the reason she was adamant about having him admitted, but not all of it. In her depressed state of mind, she was trying to do what was best for her son, and she did, as it turns out.)

My daughter went back to work after a brief medical leave. For a couple of months, everything was working well, and I began to think this time would be different for her. The rules I established for her to live in my home again included placing her earnings and other monies she receives into a joint account and we both would have to sign any checks she wrote. She was to pay her bills, on time, rebuild her credit rating, and save money for a new apartment, which she was to find before school was out the following spring. She set up a reasonable time table for accomplishing her goals, which I thought she was working to achieve.

She began overdrawing the account, using her bank ATM card. I took my name off the account and told her she was on her own, that I could not allow my credit rating to be damaged by association. We had a long discussion about getting money management counseling, along with therapy, so that she could get a handle on her life. She did begin therapy.

I asked several times over the ensuing months how things were going for her, did she need any help with setting up a budget, so on. But I didn’t push. I wanted her to take control of her own life. I didn’t want to be her caretaker, or do the work for her. At almost 39-years-old, I figured she was old enough to take care of all aspects of her life, including money management. I butted out.

After the new year began, I started reminding her that she needed to think about where she wanted to move when Donovan was released. I suggested that she spend some time on the weekends checking out potential neighborhoods, and schools that would work well with Donovan’s needs. I reminded her of her stated goal to be in a home of their own by the time school ended in May this year.

In late March, we learned that Donovan would be released sooner than expected. I think that’s when my daughter’s life began overwhelming her again. She lost her job. Her money management problems grew worse. I learned that her account was chronically overdrawn, that she had no savings, nor had she been paying her bills.

That loud voice of reason started yelling again. I wasn’t helping her, I was enabling her. I provided food and shelter, and she had no reason to leave. I took from her some of the pressure and strain she feels having to deal with Donovan’s condition. I had become an intermediary in their squabbles, acting as a buffer for both of them.

I wasn’t doing any of us any good. The strain of being their go-between and the financial hardship of having two more people to provide for on my part-time income were wearing me down. I became anxious and depressed.

So the voice of reason bellowed at me that it was time for them to leave, again. It was time for ‘tough love’ again.

My daughter chose to move to a motel. Staying there takes almost every cent she has, and it isn’t the best place to live. This is her choice, and we all have to learn to live with it.

It isn’t a homeless shelter, but having them there broke my heart again, just the same. I hope this is the last time, for all three of us.