Doing the Best We Can

“Not all addictions are rooted in abuse or trauma, but I do believe they can all be traced to painful experience. A hurt is at the centre of all addictive behaviours.”

Gabor Mate, In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts

Dr. Gabor Mate, whose above mentioned book I am about to dive into, believes that addiction is a response to some childhood trauma or emotional loss. Dr. Mate is a doctor, speaker, and best-selling author of books on a therapy approach called compassionate inquiry, addiction, mind-body health, child development and parenting, and ADHD.

His premise that, while not all trauma ends up in addiction, all addiction is rooted in childhood loss and trauma both intrigues me and, makes me want to dismiss it out of hand. Realizing, though, that no one has all the answers, I am compelled to take what I can from any reputable source who offers valid reasoning the evidence to back it up.

I am therefore going to take a dive into the “realm of hungry ghosts.” I will no doubt have a few posts to share upon reading and reflecting. I started thinking about the topic over the weekend. The idea of unpacking your childhood to find the developmental trauma hidden at the bottom is not something one looks forward to.

The initial thought process went something like: “Even my addiction?…I never experienced trauma as a child…My mom and dad were married…No one close to me died… I wasn’t the victim of or the witness to a violent act or traumatic incident…Of course I did suffer from low self-esteem…Why was that?”

I began checking off boxes and doubting the reasoning. I DM’d an Instagram friend of mine who is also in recovery (and very smart) and he agrees with Mate and recommends his book. “All addictions?” I asked. “Yes, most is developmental trauma, not the big T trauma most of us think of (war, parent’s death, sexual assault, etc.).” This again turned me toward his work, and back to my past.

There was a period of time where it was really popular to “blame it all on the parents.” It was all their fault that you are screwed up. I’ve been careful to avoid that bandwagon because it is a blanket accusation for something that has many layers.

I can look back into my past and remember feelings of anxiousness and fear. I can remember always wanting to do well and please my parents. Where did these insecurities and desires to please come from? Obviously there was something missing inside. I did not feel whole or complete enough as a person on my own. I felt I wasn’t enough. I craved validation from others around me.

Years later, I picked up a bottle and realized that these voices inside telling me I wasn’t enough were quieted when I drank. And the love affair began. Booze wasn’t my knight in shining armor, but it muted the fear, and anxiousness and need for praise, and that was just as good.

Then I looked back even farther and asked the question of what was going on with my parents where I didn’t get the love and reassurance I craved? My first reaction is to jump to their defense…I know my parents loved me and they showed me in how they took care of me and raised me. But there were some holes I stumbled upon, and some cracks I slipped through. Some things they couldn’t give me because they were things they didn’t have.

A firefighter for the state, my dad was gone a lot and we didn’t see him much during the summer. In the off-season he worked four days and came home for three. He helped enforce some rules and played with me and my sister when he had time. The time I spent with him I loved, but he’s always been a little bit far off.

My mom is very caring and considerate. She loves her family unconditionally, and shows us through kind words and thoughtful gestures. She once shared with me that her father never told his wife and kids that he loved them. She remembers her mom telling her, that when she asked her husband if he loved her, he said, “If I didn’t, you’d know it.”

And yet, my grandfather, was also a great person. He had a major impact on my life.

You see, when it comes to judging people you love and what kind of job they did raising their kids, it gets complicated real fast. Because we are real people. Complex and three-dimensional, we posses beautiful and admirable qualities along with our share of broken, ugly, cringe-worthy behavior that we’d rather not be remembered for.

But here’s the thing, and I paraphrase Maya Angelou here: we are all doing the best we can with what we possess at the time. My grandfather? He was doing the best he could, coming from immigrant parents and a mother who spent time in a sanitarium. My mother? She was doing the best she could, coming from a father who never said “I love you.” And I am doing the best I can recovering from a childhood that was in many ways beautiful, and in some ways full of holes.

Then I shined the light on me, and the ones I created, and the experiences they ingested during the first few years of their lives. Dear God, give me grace. I was doing the best I could.

And, when you know better, you do better. I am learning to fill the holes inside me. Learning that I am enough and maybe even more than enough. I’m learning to tell my kids I love them, and not just tell them, but show them. I show them by making live-giving, healthy choices. I show them by bravely doing the work it takes every day to live out my potential instead of hide out in a broken shell.

I show them by being open and honest about growing up and raising kids in this world. By sharing how unbelievably difficult and rewarding it is at the same time. That, God-willing, they too will fill the role of “parent” someday and that they too will mess up.

But that it’s okay. Because we are all just people filled with love and regrets and good intentions. Filled with messes and shining moments. Good days and bad days.

And we are all doing the best we can.