I pray America has enough people brave enough to face what's coming head on and try their best do the right thing. Even when it's not enough, especially when it's not enough.
This hits me pretty hard. My brother in law is named Marc and addicted to meth, currently in jail and denying why he is while my husband and I are fighting for custody of his two kids with the mom who is also a meth addict. I truly hope they can try one day soon.
I’m really sorry. That’s an unbearable amount to carry at once, and the way you’re showing up for those kids says everything about your heart. Addiction has a way of trapping people in denial while everyone who loves them lives with the consequences. You can hope for Marc and still protect the children,that isn’t betrayal, it’s love with boundaries. I truly hope one day they find their way toward clarity and healing, but until then, what you and your husband are doing matters more than you know. You’re giving those kids a chance at steadiness in the middle of chaos, and that is no small thing.
Thanks for this Tom, I know this hard road. I am the father of a "functional" alcoholic who is approaching 50. The guilt, anger, hoplessness, disappointment, and reality that ultimately their life is in their own hands is here, in this story. The hardest part, understanding as Troy did, a mother's first instinct is to provide comfort and protection, and standing by with advise that falls on deaf ears. Our son has come through the worst and is doing better, but the damage is apparent to us and probably others, but he is a good man and human.
I enjoy your work and this one convinced me to open my wallet.
I hear you. And I’m really glad you said all of this.
There’s a particular ache that comes with loving your child into adulthood and realizing love doesn’t grant you leverage. Just presence. Just witness. You described that mix of guilt, anger, and resignation so honestly,it’s the kind of truth only someone who’s lived it can say out loud.
That line you wrote about instinct really stuck with me. The urge to protect never leaves, no matter their age. Learning when comfort helps and when it actually gets in the way… that’s a hard, lonely education. And offering guidance you already know won’t land,that’s its own quiet grief.
I’m genuinely relieved to hear your son is doing better, even with the scars. “A good man and human” is no small thing. Sometimes that’s the win, even when it doesn’t look like the one we hoped for.
Thank you for reading so closely, and for the generosity,of spirit and wallet. It means more than you know.
It's so very rare to meet someone who can step into another person's shoes and experience the darkness of the soul and light of redemption so expertly. That gift is so very rare. I wish I had the ability to express my gratitude for carrying such a burden. It isn't easy, but it is one that helps the world heal. Sending you blessings of love and light in your journey to wear out more shoes.
That’s really kind of you to say. I don’t know that I carry it especially well,I just try to stay open and honest about what I see and feel, even when it’s heavy. Knowing it resonates, knowing it makes someone feel less alone, makes the weight easier to bear. I’m grateful you took the time to say this. It matters more than you probably realize.
The struggles of modern living. Your well runs deep in this vein of narrative. The possibility of reform, redemption, triumph.
Transformation begins when discomfort becomes an unbearable burden. The greatest disservice we can bestow upon another is to enable their comfort at the expense of their learning, growth, and personal responsibility. I've witnessed this particular brand of tragic.
Sometimes empowerment can feel like abandonment when enabling has become habit and fostered disastrous consequences. Consequences... cause and effect - usually the one thing the enabling was designed to circumvent.
Deepest respect for those on both sides who find the courage to break the pattern and live their best lives.
This means more than I can say, truly. When I sit down to write, I’m not trying to instruct or impress or even explain. I’m just trying not to look away, and to invite others to stand there with me for a moment. Knowing that it helps you feel something, move something, release something that might otherwise stay buried… that’s humbling in the deepest way.
Grief is everywhere right now, like weather. The news just pelts us with it until we go numb. Story lets us feel it without being destroyed by it. It gives shape to the ache, and sometimes, if we’re lucky, it lets a little light leak in around the edges. If my words help do that for you or anyone else, then they’ve done their job.
I don’t think of it as saving anyone. I think of it as sitting together in the dark and saying, “Yeah, I feel that too.” But I’m grateful beyond measure that you’re there, that you read so closely, and that you feel so openly. That kind of witness goes both ways.
Thank you, my friend. That really means a lot. You have a way of seeing what I’m trying to say, even when it’s messy or uncomfortable. This one came from a heavy place, and knowing it landed with you makes it feel a little less lonely. I appreciate you being here and taking it in so honestly.
What always lands with me with your work, Tom, is that it's a healing force.
A way for us to process our grief (ever present in this moment). It's different than the horror of following the news. In your stories, I am (we, as readers, are) inside it. Feeling it. Resonating with the loss, the grief, and almost always - the hope within it.
Processing our feelings? Necessary, absolutely. And YOU foster that.
How many times have you read "tears" in your comments? I've stopped saying it, but know that you get me every time. And for all of us, that's one less unresolved (buried and unexpressed) emotion that could otherwise lead to disease.
I see you over there. Saving us.
What you say, you say perfectly.
It's what you make me and others feel that is your gift and your legacy. And we love you for that. Gratitude always, Tom.
Thank you. Your writing is one of my favorite recent discoveries on substack - but The Drawer moved me, profoundly.I'm grateful you place these stories out here for readers to find.
Let's take a minute and think about Walker's words.
"The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don't have any."
— Alice Walker
https://thistleandmoss.com/p/the-week-is-continuing-to-indeed-suck-trump-take-nobel-trump-invoke-insurrection-gop-laughs
I pray America has enough people brave enough to face what's coming head on and try their best do the right thing. Even when it's not enough, especially when it's not enough.
Oil.
Mom needs to cut off the oil.
It doesn't look like she's strong enough to do that.
Could be she's delusional about not having a terminal disease.
Another moving great story. Thank you.
Wow Tom J.
I have a story of a loved one enabled who finally was not.
Enabling comes from caring and fear.
An addict learns that you think he can’t do it when he is enabled.
The opposite when you stop enabling.
The person I know has a year sober now that her parents have learned to love her without enabling her.
We are forever grateful.
Her name is Lynne .
She is my granddaughter.
That’s really great!!!
We are so happy.
She struggles with “ real life “. We cheer her on. She will get there.
Your story will help others. Know that.
I send your farm story far and wide. People learn and love it.
Peace out Tom J.
This hits me pretty hard. My brother in law is named Marc and addicted to meth, currently in jail and denying why he is while my husband and I are fighting for custody of his two kids with the mom who is also a meth addict. I truly hope they can try one day soon.
I’m really sorry. That’s an unbearable amount to carry at once, and the way you’re showing up for those kids says everything about your heart. Addiction has a way of trapping people in denial while everyone who loves them lives with the consequences. You can hope for Marc and still protect the children,that isn’t betrayal, it’s love with boundaries. I truly hope one day they find their way toward clarity and healing, but until then, what you and your husband are doing matters more than you know. You’re giving those kids a chance at steadiness in the middle of chaos, and that is no small thing.
Thank you so much. It’s a messy fight but one absolutely worth fighting.
Thanks for the read, Tom.
cheers,
revel.
Well damn! You made me cry.
Thanks for this Tom, I know this hard road. I am the father of a "functional" alcoholic who is approaching 50. The guilt, anger, hoplessness, disappointment, and reality that ultimately their life is in their own hands is here, in this story. The hardest part, understanding as Troy did, a mother's first instinct is to provide comfort and protection, and standing by with advise that falls on deaf ears. Our son has come through the worst and is doing better, but the damage is apparent to us and probably others, but he is a good man and human.
I enjoy your work and this one convinced me to open my wallet.
I hear you. And I’m really glad you said all of this.
There’s a particular ache that comes with loving your child into adulthood and realizing love doesn’t grant you leverage. Just presence. Just witness. You described that mix of guilt, anger, and resignation so honestly,it’s the kind of truth only someone who’s lived it can say out loud.
That line you wrote about instinct really stuck with me. The urge to protect never leaves, no matter their age. Learning when comfort helps and when it actually gets in the way… that’s a hard, lonely education. And offering guidance you already know won’t land,that’s its own quiet grief.
I’m genuinely relieved to hear your son is doing better, even with the scars. “A good man and human” is no small thing. Sometimes that’s the win, even when it doesn’t look like the one we hoped for.
Thank you for reading so closely, and for the generosity,of spirit and wallet. It means more than you know.
Amazing read. Hits a little too close to home. This is common and devastatingly sad. Thanks for sharing.
It’s hits a little too close to home for all of us. Thanks for reading!!
It's so very rare to meet someone who can step into another person's shoes and experience the darkness of the soul and light of redemption so expertly. That gift is so very rare. I wish I had the ability to express my gratitude for carrying such a burden. It isn't easy, but it is one that helps the world heal. Sending you blessings of love and light in your journey to wear out more shoes.
That’s really kind of you to say. I don’t know that I carry it especially well,I just try to stay open and honest about what I see and feel, even when it’s heavy. Knowing it resonates, knowing it makes someone feel less alone, makes the weight easier to bear. I’m grateful you took the time to say this. It matters more than you probably realize.
This one hit my heart and cracked… hopefully …. Let there be light!
Her son is not a "meth addict," he is her child. After that you lost me.
Thanks for yet another moving piece, Tom.
The struggles of modern living. Your well runs deep in this vein of narrative. The possibility of reform, redemption, triumph.
Transformation begins when discomfort becomes an unbearable burden. The greatest disservice we can bestow upon another is to enable their comfort at the expense of their learning, growth, and personal responsibility. I've witnessed this particular brand of tragic.
Sometimes empowerment can feel like abandonment when enabling has become habit and fostered disastrous consequences. Consequences... cause and effect - usually the one thing the enabling was designed to circumvent.
Deepest respect for those on both sides who find the courage to break the pattern and live their best lives.
This means more than I can say, truly. When I sit down to write, I’m not trying to instruct or impress or even explain. I’m just trying not to look away, and to invite others to stand there with me for a moment. Knowing that it helps you feel something, move something, release something that might otherwise stay buried… that’s humbling in the deepest way.
Grief is everywhere right now, like weather. The news just pelts us with it until we go numb. Story lets us feel it without being destroyed by it. It gives shape to the ache, and sometimes, if we’re lucky, it lets a little light leak in around the edges. If my words help do that for you or anyone else, then they’ve done their job.
I don’t think of it as saving anyone. I think of it as sitting together in the dark and saying, “Yeah, I feel that too.” But I’m grateful beyond measure that you’re there, that you read so closely, and that you feel so openly. That kind of witness goes both ways.
Much love, always.
Thank you, my friend. That really means a lot. You have a way of seeing what I’m trying to say, even when it’s messy or uncomfortable. This one came from a heavy place, and knowing it landed with you makes it feel a little less lonely. I appreciate you being here and taking it in so honestly.
What always lands with me with your work, Tom, is that it's a healing force.
A way for us to process our grief (ever present in this moment). It's different than the horror of following the news. In your stories, I am (we, as readers, are) inside it. Feeling it. Resonating with the loss, the grief, and almost always - the hope within it.
Processing our feelings? Necessary, absolutely. And YOU foster that.
How many times have you read "tears" in your comments? I've stopped saying it, but know that you get me every time. And for all of us, that's one less unresolved (buried and unexpressed) emotion that could otherwise lead to disease.
I see you over there. Saving us.
What you say, you say perfectly.
It's what you make me and others feel that is your gift and your legacy. And we love you for that. Gratitude always, Tom.
Thank you. Your writing is one of my favorite recent discoveries on substack - but The Drawer moved me, profoundly.I'm grateful you place these stories out here for readers to find.
Thanks for reading Kevin!!
TEARS