Freedom in Limits

Some people hit their breaking point early in life. Others hit it much later. And of course some never hit it at all.

I'd always considered myself a strong person; strong in spirit that is. The problem is, I never knew my limits, so I was always pushing the envelope a little more, a little more, the whole time wondering if I was about to hit my limits. From raising my daughter on my own, putting myself through college after having dropped out of high school, conducting research in international conflict zones, to flying airplanes and riding motorcycles, and yes, starting a magazine in a down economy late in 2008.

That's the problem with not knowing my limits my whole life; the fear of wondering if any second I would hit them. Oops.

And then it happened. Late November 2011. I broke. My daughter lay in a tented bed in the VA Hospital barely alive after a horrible drug overdose. ...

I'd suspended publication of Grand Valley Magazine -- the magazine filled with pages of beautiful and wonderful things about our community; beautiful and wonderful things that helped counter a world seemingly over-run with headline after headline of pain, anger, despair, exploitation, hipocracy, crazy self-righteousness and selfishness, yuck.

I'd failed in my attempts to grow the nonprofit organization I founded to engage teams of unemployed people. I'd turned down several partnership deals to revive the magazine. I'd stormed out of board meetings I was serving on. I was an emotional mess trying to keep it all under wraps inside.

And I was angry. Angry that I had not been a good enough mother that my daughter would end up addicted to drugs despite all her accomplishments and goodwill. Angry that I wasn't smiling for my husband. Angry that I had not been a smart enough business woman to build a successful business. Angry that there were people actually wishing for my failure. Angry at my community for having a drug problem. Angry. Angry. Angry.

It was only weeks before that faitful November night of my daughter's overdose that a friend (at the time) who I respected said to me over lunch: "I can't help you." Then looking me straight in the eye, he took a deep breath and said, "you won't understand this now, and you're not going to like hearing it, but you're going to go down even harder than it feels now..." I couldn't hold back the tears. He continued, "but, I am certain that you will come back stronger than you can ever imagine. You need to eat; finish your salad."

That was the last conversation we ever had in person. In fact, I've only seen him in passing one other time since then. He was right.

Weeks later, as I sat next to my daughter's tented bed in the VA Hospital... I broke. Completely and totally, I broke. Five years battling her addiction. Five years. Five. Years. My beautiful baby girl... I broke. I, who thought I had an answer for everything, didn't have a single clue left as to how to save her. I couldn't save her. The drugs had her tight in their control.

The doctor, sensing my distance, said to me with a gentle smile, "no, you can't go with her." His words were like drops of light oil on an already loosening grip. She could die at any moment and I can't go with her? I ... can't... go ... with... her... I remember crying out in a way that felt like an inertia blast as I seemed to be flung far far away from her into a vast nothingness that closed around me. The drugs, the chemicals, the culture. They won. They had beat us. After a lifetime of learning and growing despite all the challenges and determination to do the right thing, the little fuckers won. And I was done.

And the drugs were mocking me from my daughter's body. "Did you honestly think you could beat us? Did you honestly think your narcissistic species is more than a movable clump of biomass on a silly little planet in the far reaches of the universe?"

Whatever I had done or not done that led her to so much as even try drugs much less become part of the culture of it, was not in my reach or power to ... to save her. As if we were separated by an entire universe and I could only see her, I couldn't hold on to her... as she lay twitching and drooling in that tent bed... it was awful, so awful. I was ready to die with her, follow her if I had to, I was so desparate to save her, I couldn't stop trying to reach her.

I just knew in that moment that my breaking point was the complete and total reality of not being able to save my daughter's life. That was and still is my limit. Beyond that there is nothingness. No challenges or pissy people and no discovery or love. Just. Nothingness. And if I could not save my own daughter's life, who I gave birth to and nurtured and loved and protected... If I couldn't save her life, then ... I couldn't even begin to think I could save anyone else's...

From that moment on, I was no longer an impetuous temperamental armchair expert on everything and everyone. I was no longer the cocky 16-year-old intellectual who dropped out of high school because her teachers were idiots. No longer was I at-the-ready with know-it-all solutions to the world's problems. No longer did I think I was smarter than ... anyone.

I had no advice for mothers. I had no advice for ambitious young business women. I had no success to inspire my daughter to fight the good fight in her recovery. I had nothing of value to anyone. Broken, I sank into a deep and very dark depression. I had fallen far below embarrassment and shame; far below humility; I was nothing more than a spent collection of atoms and molecules. And I had failed my child. My child.

Yet, she made it through that night, then the next night, and the next... I believe what did save her was the strength of her own spirit, her cosmic glue, her deeply personal relationship with God. I don't know. But I do know it wasn't me that saved her that night, or any day since. I was powerless. Completely powerless.

With a very understanding husband. I cried so many nights in his arms. His sons, our grandson and daughter-in-law, were so kind and sensitive and I needed them all in ways I couldn't explain. My mother and I cried together; she would bring cookies over sometimes. That was nice. My family made me smile with their love and their authenticity.

That was 17 months ago. Today, I spend a lot more time laughing with my husband and family; my daughter is in a VA drug treatment facility and doing very well; we write letters and talk on the phone several times a week. Every day that she is alive and well is a beautiful day to me. No matter what.

And yes, we get to see our granddaughter, who has a wonderful mom in her dad's wife. We are so blessed that she has such a wonderful and loving home environment and that we get to spend time with her.

We are in production on our sixth issue of the comeback Grand Valley Magazine and not only are we again publishing the glossy print edition, but we've added iPad and other digital editions to the mix. And, Grand Junction City Council granted us a sales tax exemption on subscriptions last week in the form of an Ordinance.

I stay focused on my family, my business, and my art. And no need to specify close friends because my close friends are considered part of my family, my business, and my art.

Knowning my limits means I am free to live without fear of wondering where and what they are; and seeing that what I thought might be all-important limits turned out to be nothing more than petty nonsense. The things I used to get all twisted out of shape about now don't even warrant an eyeroll much less getting upset over. And when I am upset, I let myself experience it privately, then move on. It's okay. When I'm tired and feeling crabby, I try to get some rest as soon as possible.

I'm liberated by my limits because I know clearly what they are; that they are no one else's limits. They are uniquely mine; just as everyone has each their own.

I was told recently, in no uncertain terms, that I "don't understand the magazine business." Before the break, before I found my limits, such a statement from a talented person would likely have devastated or insulted me at the least, prompting me to react in defense, immediately reciting my 25-year history in media, primarily in print, including, yes, magazines. Nice ones.

But, interestingly, as that person continued to rail me for my ignorance, I was barely able to stifle a smile.

This person was saying absolutely nothing I hadn't already beat myself to death about during the break. There was nothing of my old certainty left for her to impale. I didn't even get mad. There was nothing to be mad about. I was more disappointed that she was so quick to pick up her toys and go home when she didn't get her way right away. But nope, her way or she was gone. Strange. Oh well.

Knowing that it is impossible for any one person to know everything about anything on their own freed me from old feelings of inferiority to other human beings; other humans who have the perfect homes, have perfect children who do all the right things, have more friends, more brains, more money, more time, more more more.

I'm now free to live my life any way that I choose within my limits. Not some arbitrary cultural thing (those are merely boundaries that don't exist in nature), but spiritual life and death limits.

From time to time someone will say to me after they find out that I do music "oh, I could never get up in front of people and sing; I would be too embarrassed!"

Why? Who cares? I'm just an insignificant fragile human, clump of biomass, fortunate enough to know love and joy and heartbreak and humility -- to have for a fleeting moment in the history of the Earth the gift, the blessing that is the human experience. Why not sing when there is so much to sing about? (Or, for some folks, why not complain when there is so much to complain about?) Why not rejoice when there is so much to rejoice about? Especially when such moments may be few and fleeting for those experiencing loss or fear or pain?

When my friend (at the time) told me I would break but that would come back stronger, not only did I doubt that I would come back at all, much less stronger, I had no idea that the new strength would come from nothing more than ... grace... thankfulness.

I am so thankful for my life. To ask for anything more would be reaching beyond my limits...