Laurie update

It seems like every single time my mind drifts toward my mother — even unintentionally — the universe sends me another update about her life.

My cousin reached out again today.

Apparently, a few weeks ago… or maybe even months ago… my mother walked out of her assisted living facility. She was tired of being supervised 24/7. Tired of rules. Tired of someone always watching her.

So she left.

And exactly what everyone feared would happen… happened.

She ended up back on the streets.Using again.Her leg wound flared back up.Another cycle.Another disaster.Another “this time might kill her.”

And somehow — somehow — the facility is taking her back.

At this point, I honestly don’t know what shocks me more:that they’re letting her return…or that my mother is still alive.

Fifteen years ago, I thought maybe I would become a counselor. I took class after class, fascinated by psychology and addiction. I earned enough credits to minor in psychology before life pulled me in another direction.

Part of me still wonders what would have happened if I had finished.

But math and dyslexia nearly broke me back then, and I don’t think I have it in me to fight through that battle again.  I survived those classes because of one patient tutor who helped me claw my way through.

But anyway…

Back to my mother.

For one of my drug abuse classes, I had to interview a recovering addict. At the time, my mother was doing better — or at least pretending to.

She had recently gotten out of prison and was living with her girlfriend. Together they were fostering a little boy. Well… technically, her girlfriend had custody. My mother never could have qualified for that.

Still, for a brief moment, it looked like she might finally be getting her life together.

I remember sitting across from her during that interview, trying to separate “Mom” from “subject.” Trying to understand addiction through someone else’s eyes while simultaneously realizing addiction had shaped every corner of my own childhood.

I pray I still have that interview written down somewhere because there are pieces of it I can no longer remember.

But one story never left me.

My mother had these little circular scars all over her body.

When I was a kid, I used to ask her about them constantly. She would always brush me off, change the subject, or tell me not to worry about it.

During that interview, she finally told me the truth.

When my sister and I were around three or four years old, my mother stole drugs from a man.

He wanted them back.

She told him she didn’t have them. She didn’t have the money either.

So he stabbed her.

Over and over again.

Then he dumped her in a field in Pittsburgh, California, and left her there to die.

My mother said she played dead until he finally drove away.

And then somehow — bleeding, terrified, barely alive — she stood up and walked.

She walked until she found a house.

She knocked on the door covered in blood.

What always stuck with me was how she described the inside of that home. White carpet. White sofas. Everything spotless and bright while she stood there bleeding onto all of it.

And instead of slamming the door…instead of screaming…the woman simply reassured her:

“It’s okay.”

Then she called 911.

Police found the man and arrested him.

But before the trial, someone got to my mother.

They told her if she testified against him, they would kill her children next.

So when she took the stand, under oath, she looked directly at the man who nearly murdered her and said:

“No. That’s not him. The guy had a tattoo on the other arm.”

And just like that…

He walked free.

I have spent years thinking about that story.

Because you would think being stabbed nearly to death, left in a field, and threatened with losing your children would be enough to make someone stop using drugs forever.

You would think that would become the moment everything changed.

The rock bottom.The wake-up call.The turning point.

But addiction doesn’t work like that.

I think she went to rehab after that. One of many times.

And yet here we are, nearly 40 years later.

She is still alive.Still running.Still using.Still destroying herself one relapse at a time.

How?

How does someone survive all of this and still go back?

And maybe the harder question is this:

How does addiction survive everything?

The overdoses.The prison sentences.The violence.The abandonment.The treatment centers.The second chances.

Because no matter how many times my mother burns her life to the ground, someone eventually opens another door for her.

This time, it’s the assisted living facility taking her back.

Part of me is relieved because maybe she won’t die alone on the street tonight.

But another part of me knows this story isn’t over.

I don’t think my mother will ever stop running from herself.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part of addiction:sometimes surviving isn’t the same thing as living.