Detach with Love

By Margaret Searle

Detach with Love could be described as a tragic true life story told by his mother and written using testimony taken from the diaries he wrote whilst in rehab. 
But it goes further than that. This is the story of a family fighting for their son’s life, against those in society who should have been there to help vulnerable people like David - social services, the medical profession and the local authorities. They all failed him in the end.  
This book not only challenges a rethink on the accepted wisdom of non- intervention, but also society’s view of addicts, not dropouts but seeing them as people who are ill, perhaps someone’s child, needing help and understanding. In the last month of David’s life he became a missing person, walking out of his home and out of the lives of all who loved him. It should be required reading for everyone associated with the field of addiction. It demands a rethink on the accepted wisdom of non-intervention, and society's view of addicts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Feb 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781783068258

Margaret Searle

Margaret Searle is president of Searle Enterprises, an education consulting firm. She specializes in the areas of social-emotional learning, executive function development, differentiated instruction, inclusive education, and leadership team development, as well as in training teams to implement Response to Intervention and Multitiered Systems of Support. She is also an adjunct professor at Ashland University. Her teaching experience covers every grade from preschool through 8th grade in both a general and special education capacity. Her administrative experience has been as a K–12 supervisor, a middle school principal, and an elementary school principal. She served as an advisor to President George H. W. Bush on elementary and secondary education issues. Searle's books include What Every School Leader Needs to Know About RTI (2010); Causes and Cures in the Classroom: Getting to the Root of Academic and Behavior Problems (2013); and Teacher Teamwork: How Do We Make It Work? (2015).

Book preview

Prologue

Chapter 1

Why our son, why us?

Sometime in the early hours of October the twelfth, our son David must have struggled back to the only place he now called home, slipped off his badly worn white trainers with the tightly knotted shoelaces, before throwing himself onto the dirty pile of bedding, too ill to bother and too defeated to care.

Those laces were symbolic of the tortuous life he had chosen to lead; where once the neatly tied bows of childhood had become so ravelled and twisted that they could never be undone.

That was where he found him later, curled up in the foetal position and by now quite obviously dead.

The shoes with their tangled laces came home to us with the rest of his pitifully few possessions and were lovingly placed outside his bedroom door, as if hopeful, waiting once more for his feet to step back into them. Try as I might I can’t move them – not even an inch. They have stayed in the same place for years now, seemingly glued to the spot. For me they give a comforting link to my son’s final earthly act as he removed his shoes for the very last time. I am bound to them forever.

He’d been missing now for nearly four weeks; sighted once or twice early on, but since then nothing.

How could he have disappeared so completely and with no apparent means of survival?

As far as we knew he had no money and no way of getting any. He had stopped communication with us weeks ago and had never signed on for benefits in order to get money from the state.

And now our feelings of fear and frustration spilled over into a chasm of impotence, making us powerless to help him in any way.

The best we could hope for was that someone somewhere was letting him bed down on a floor; giving him some shelter at least for a short while. At worst, and probably much more likely, he was wandering the streets of Brighton during the day and at night huddling in some doorway begging for the odd handout?

What we did know with certainty was that wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he would unquestionably be oblivious to his own safety. This he had proved time and time again over the years.

Sometimes I tried to kick start myself back into feeling anger or even some hope at his situation, but returned again and again to where the end was always the same; very, very bleak indeed.

When the mobile rang in the car I knew instinctly that it was going to be the call we’d been dreading for so long.

We looked at each other briefly, its ringing stopping our conversation in its tracks. The tone sounded different to our strained ears - threatening and ominous - perhaps preparing us for this moment.

As I took the phone, my outstretched hand felt strangely unattached, as if not wishing to make contact, not wanting to know.

I could hear the familiar voice of our son-in-law Garry, quietly talking to me, telling us to come home; his carefully chosen words giving nothing much away. His tone seemed to me to be covered by a false calm. The pounding in my ears made his words muzzy, as I tried hard to concentrate on what he was saying.

Of the two of us my husband Keith has always been the optimist, and even though we feared the worst he still tried to give comfort – reassuring me that until we had positive proof there must be hope. I wouldn’t be convinced however, for to be honest I’d given up on hope a long time ago.

There was silence in the car now, both of us caught up in our own thoughts and fears. It was Friday evening and we were stuck in the traffic that beset Tunbridge Wells so regularly. Keith tried to turn the car round in the busy road. It seemed a journey of a lifetime with queues of traffic at every junction.

I felt such a heavy feeling of inertia as we made our way home. Part of me wanted to stay just where I was, needing to prolong the moment, not wanting to know what I guessed would be the inevitable. But perversely and in strange contrast, I longed to get back, desperate to fight this gut churning fear and get it over with; release us from our six years of absolute hell.

As we turned into our daughter’s street here was confirmation of our most dreaded fear- a police car parked discretely in the corner- such a menacing object of despair.

I remember my legs felt like lead as we walked down the steps to the front door of our daughter’s house. Garry’s face, normally tanned and healthy, looked grey as he led us down the hall to the sitting room. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the window and, as I had seen in my mind’s eye for so long, were two young policemen, standing in front of the orange settee nervously trying to look official.

We stood hand in hand - David’s parents - facing two strangers; time standing still for those brief few seconds, until it was impossible for the silence not to be broken, the stillness shattered.

I remember feeling strangely sorry for them as they stood there, not much older than our own son, grappling for the right words to tell us that David was dead.

For them the moment passed and was gone, but for us nothing could ease the torment in which these memories will be with us for the rest of our lives.

All I knew for certain was that our son was never coming back and although he was now out of his misery, we were still here, left to deal with an overwhelming grief and the momentous question as to the reasons why.

For Keith, the knowledge that our son had found release at last would be his continuing philosophy. There would be no more worries, no more trying to fix what he couldn’t mend. No more waking up with the realisation that the day ahead would be filled with fear and frustration, our happiness dragged from us. For me, after an initial release it would be like the pain of child birth – wishing so much that I could have the chance to try again.

Anxious to go and leave us to our grief the two policemen were now on the point of leaving.

Up till now they had given us very little detail about David’s death. Much as I wanted them gone, I felt impelled to extract everything they knew before they left.

As it happened the police had very little to tell. Everything was being dealt with by the coroner; but what they did know for certain was that our son had died nine days earlier.

For a moment I thought I hadn’t heard them properly; unable to comprehend the length of time it had taken to be told. I had to ask them to repeat the date of his death, but again they repeated they didn’t have the answers and they couldn’t explain the long delay.

Finally they were gone. The police must have handed us a small piece of paper as they left, with the telephone numbers of the mortuary and a bereavement counsellor, because I found it crumpled in my hand a lot later.

We were numb with grief but at least we knew the worst. Now we needed to tell our other children.

They had had such faith in us, hoping we would be able to save their brother; and it seemed to us we had let them down.

There was Kate, still waiting for us to bring her home from university, unaware that her life was about to be changed forever; and Louise who was happily doing her favourite thing shopping, and had tried so hard to find a way of reaching out to her brother in those last desperate months.

Should we let Robert know? He was on holiday in Africa searching for silver backed gorillas, an experience of a lifetime. Was it right to shatter his peace of mind just yet?

As I was beginning to get my mind round how we would break David’s death to the children I heard the front door slam.

In the quiet of this unusually warm October afternoon Louise stood in the hall, bags of shopping swinging from her arms. A smile of pleasure crossed her flushed face as she saw us standing there, changing to a look of utter horror as her father gently told her what had happened. He cradled her in his arms as she just sobbed and sobbed.

‘My beautiful brother, my beautiful boy, I just want him back. I can’t believe we won’t see him again. I’m so afraid I’ll forget him; what he looks like; the sound of his voice.’

She looked so fragile, so lost, and for once as a mother, there was nothing I could do to make it better. There is such certainty in the finality of death; if only I could have turned back the clock for us all.

When I saw him laid out in the mortuary later, he looked so beautiful, his features eased and smooth, just as if he were sleeping peacefully. He seemed so serene, so untroubled now. I desperately wanted to wake him, give him life again as I had all those years before, but I could not touch him, knowing in reality all that remained was the cold shell of the boy that had once been.

I remember gazing at him, trying to take in every last detail, thinking that I had not seen him for so long and knowing that this would be the last time. I scanned every small detail trying to fix his features in my mind. There was a tiny scratch on his index finger ingrained with dirt – how did it get there, when did it happen? There was his lovely hair. It looked so dark and dirty now, giving a hint of how he had given up on himself. These were such small things but in my grief I just needed to know as much as possible about those last few weeks of his life.

Inevitably I am left with unanswered questions, not only about the end but also the beginning –‘Why our son, why us? Was it genetic, was it his upbringing, was he just born unlucky?

This beautiful young boy loved so much by his close knit family, had died alone and destitute in one of Brighton’s high rise block of flats – an alcoholic. He was just twenty seven years old.

Chapter 2

It’s the detachment that’s so difficult

The surroundings, where death had come so suddenly, were very different from the beautiful flat we had bought our son less than two years before, desperately hoping to stabilize the ups and downs of his addiction.

Although we knew it would be a dangerous move to invest the little money we had on a son who was unreliable at the best, and at the worst dishonest when drinking, we felt it might be our last chance to help him. We hoped against hope that having a safe place to live, somewhere settled, would help him finally put his life back together.

To be honest we hoped that by buying the flat for him, would give us some peace of mind too. We would know where he was and perhaps we would also have some control of the situation

Not for us the advice we’d been given over the years to let our son hit rock bottom; be homeless on the streets; be cold and hungry. We knew better than that. David was our son. We were going to save him, whatever it cost, in every sense of the word.

I feel the excitement even now, on the day he moved into his new home; all the family wanting to help, so anxious that he should feel settled, no one wanting the moment to be spoilt, everyone of us hoping that this move would allow him the peace to finally get better.

Strangely, one of the old covenants to the flat stated that no alcohol should be consumed on the premises. I imagine this was because it had once been part of a Victorian chapel. We hoped in a superstitious sort of way this might put a veil of protection over David and halt his excessive drinking. Honestly, by now we were so desperate, any glimmer of hope would do.

It was a lovely apartment, very unique, and I could see why David liked it so much. A spiral staircase led up to a large sitting room which was comfortably arranged with second hand furniture: a squashy brown leather settee, red plush armchair and a highly polished coffee table.

David was so proud of his first ‘grown up’ place to live. Like a lot of youngsters he had endured his share of rough student digs after leaving home and now all he wanted was to be a home-maker, enjoy cooking on the new cooker, put flowers in a vase, and sleep safely in his new IKEA bed!

Sadly, both for him and us, David’s new life was not enough. His need for alcohol was such an overwhelming force.

He would have loved to be the respectable teacher; the successful business man; the devoted loving partner, but he used to say that alcohol was like a black beast sitting on his shoulder waiting to muscle in and wreck any chance of happiness. He called this imaginary force ‘Jimbo’.

Jimbo for David was personified by the self-destructive Jim Morrison, lead singer of the rock band Doors, whose music he loved. Morrison died in 1971 in a Paris apartment, a chronic alcoholic, and years before our own son was born, but we had a sinking feeling that his recklessness and excesses might reflect David’s own life, leading to the same tragic end.

Alcohol addiction is as powerful as heroin and probably more difficult to kick. David never knew - perhaps after many months of being sober - when he would be dragged back to weeks of binge drinking which would so cruelly control and demolish his life. During these periods he was unable to work, feed himself properly or keep in contact with his family, the very processes which for most of us are essential for an ordered life.

Worst of all for those of us who loved him and had to watch helplessly, David appeared not to realise that the amount he was drinking meant he was putting his body through the sort of punishment that no human being could sustain for very long.

Who knows what brought on these devastating periods of binge drinking? It could often be the result of simple things like changes in his surroundings or starting a new job. The one thing that David needed was continuity, but instead of giving himself a helping hand he never stayed in a job for very long. He justified the need for change in various ways - the work had become boring and undemanding, he could earn more money or it would be a good career move.

Whatever his reasons, each time there was a change in his life he found he put himself under enormous pressure. That pressure meant one thing - booze. To those who knew him well and were looking on, just before he started drinking again, there was an eerie sense of déjà vu, only picked up by the odd word or action. It was intangible and always ended in the same way.

There were times when he would turn up for work as usual, sit at his desk for an hour or two, then without a word of warning, walk out of the office and out of people’s lives. There followed a swift trip to the pub to down several pints in quick succession. He thought initially that this would be enough to get him over his desire for alcohol and ease his anxiety, but of course it was never enough. The effect of a drink was always a disappointment, never giving him the buzz he expected. The saying goes that for an alcoholic ‘one pint is too many and a million is never enough’. Once David had made the decision to drink, it did not take long for one pint of beer to become a litre of vodka.

After this it was the same familiar downward spiral. He was out of control, his every action and thought leading to the same dark place: how could he manage his day around drinking? He needed to be secretive so that those close to him did not guess the truth; he had to get money by whatever means, sometimes stealing from his family or selling his own few possessions for a pittance, never bothering to feed or care for himself. After all why worry about food when booze can be so sustaining?

Once he found himself in this alcoholic spiral it did not take long to realise that those close to him were also overtaken by its ravages - lying and excusing in an effort to protect both David and ourselves. There were many times when his absences from work had to be explained away, with the hope that the drinking would stop and he would be able to go back.

When a family starts to become consumed by alcoholism as we were, Alcoholics Anonymous always advise to ‘detach with love’ and let the alcoholic get on with it. If only it were that simple. The loving is easy enough; it’s the detachment that’s difficult. Perhaps, for the sake of our own sanity, we should have let David go and wait for him to ask for our help. How many times were we told that alcoholics must hit rock bottom before they can see reason. By being there to pick him up every time he fell, we would simply make his drinking too easy. This is true. But surely we reasoned, picking up the pieces and trying to help our son deal with his addiction was all part of being his parents?

Alone and with no real insight into this illness, the fear at times of not knowing if we were making the right decisions was heart-wrenching.

As hard as we tried there did not seem to be a key that could unlock the door to David’s problems. Night after night I would toss and turn in bed trying to find reasons for David’s drinking; trying to think of ways to help him; trying to make sense of the half truths or deliberate lies he told us.

I so wish we could have reached out to him and found some point of reference. Why couldn’t we have found a way to unlock the door; to find the answer; but David never showed us the way? Maybe he didn’t know the answers himself.

Chapter 3

A defining moment

In the period since David’s death I have been trying to put together the parts of the jigsaw that made up the life of our son and which in the end ultimately destroyed him.

I guess if life shatters as ours has, there has to be a defining moment?

For us, looking back I think I now know the moment. It has to be an incident that meant very little at the time, but like many things, when we tried to put the pieces back together, came back to haunt us.

The year was 1993 and David was fifteen years old.

One of his best friends was a boy called Richard and they had agreed to meet up at Richard’s house after school. It was getting late and just as I was beginning to wonder what time David was thinking of getting home the phone rang.

It was Richard’s father. Judging from his terse tone something must have happened. Cutting the conversation short and with no preamble, he told me he was bringing David straight home. I knew something was wrong but I couldn’t imagine what.

When I opened the door ten minutes later I could hardly believe my eyes.

To my horror, David, barely able to stand, was propped up by Richard’s father and was almost unrecognisable as our son. His eyes rolled and his speech was so slurred it was incomprehensible.

Angrily Richard’s father described how David and his son had raided their drinks cabinet whilst he and his wife were out. On their return they had found both boys very drunk, but out of the two of them David was by far the worse.

Mortified, I mumbled a hasty apology and got David upstairs and into his bed before ringing the doctor.

What on earth had possessed David to polish off the remains of most of the spirits in Richard’s house on that particular day? As far as I was aware he’d never taken much of an interest in alcohol before.

Was it a school boy prank in which neither boy realised the seriousness of binge drinking?

Who knows - but the results certainly had devastating consequences.

He was very, very ill that night and in no position to give us any answers to his self-induced madness and as with so many things that concerned drinking, David was never able or prepared to come up with an answer later.

The next day he felt very sorry for himself. Not only did he have an awful hangover, but he had a black eye to go with it, where drunk the night before, he had fallen off a swing in the children’s play-park and banged his head.

Many years later whilst researching alcoholism, we read an article on the damage that binge drinking can cause to the immature brain. In certain cases, this can ultimately lead to addiction. It seems very likely therefore that this one defining moment was the portent of all David’s later problems.

However, back then this episode didn’t give me any sleepless nights. There were no repeat incidents and David was growing up to be a normal well adjusted boy, more interested in playing football than hanging around in the local park getting drunk with friends.

Having said this though, there was one incident concerning David’s grandma and the sherry.

She always liked a drink before lunch and on this occasion one sip told her that the Harvey’s Pale Cream she was looking forward to was almost pure water. Rather naively we thought either Robert or David had diluted it for a laugh. We never considered that one of them may have consumed its contents themselves.

A lot later the same thing happened again and it was then that warning bells began to ring.

Was someone helping themselves to our drinks perhaps to start a night out early, afraid to ask our permission and rather naively thinking we wouldn’t notice if the half drunk bottle was topped up with water?

If things had worked out differently for David, would we have been looking back at these incidents as a normal part of growing up and teenage experimenting, or in retrospect was this