The Man In The Room

By L Violo

The darkness plays with light like a soft breeze, in and out of the sweetest sky. But the stunning colours of the dawn crack, exposing the grey. Then, without so much as a sound, the storm swirls in... smothers.

The twenty years of journaling my story, The Man in the Room, resembles this type of sky. Our universe requires us to move, to grow. Yet, it would seem to me, you cannot embrace change until you acknowledge the deepest center of yourself.

This progression requires me to expose the secrets of my family, which keep the sickness of dysfunction beating with a pulse, and bind us as to one another when we call each other "friends".

While I wrote this book, emotional change overtook me. I loved and I grieved the moving parts of a little boy who became mine at four-and-a-half through incredible life circumstance. As I sit here in quiet reflection, I truly believe with all my heart that it has been my responsibility to acknowledge these days on paper. This writing affords me a certain luxury now, a permission slip, if you will. It gives me a measure of detachment from the outcome, the life choices of my son Toth as he slips in and out of addiction recovery.

This type of mental illness requires both a compassionate stance as a nurturer and the ability to draw a hard line. A boundary where I seriously consider my self-preservation.

This disease is punitive, robbing me of a child I adored with every ounce of my mothering heart.

My thoughts drift... I remember when Toth had enrolled himself in a recovery program. He asked me out for an "accountability coffee;" as we gathered our beverages, he spoke and I listened to his pain. He focused on all the ways I had hurt him in my parenting. There was no denying, no justifying this injured being before me. In the end I asked for forgiveness, told him how sorry I was. There was no kindness from Toth's heart that day. He had a firm grasp on his resentments, and I believe that to this moment, he clenches them tightly.

I left that coffee shop and wrote about my character defects. Ripping and tearing myself to shreds, I grieved in an agony I didn't know possible. I believe a part of me died like the shedding of an old skin. After I felt such release, my soul demanded it.

Right then, I decided to change the meaning of "I love, “It no longer meant I could keep this young man I had raised all these years. It now moved into “I live, “For my life's purpose, honoring the gifts that my hands provide to our universe. Since that day of rebirth, I have this incredible ability to discern and stay away from relationships that swallow me whole. Spitting out the chaotic pieces of that primary relationship with my adopted son has opened my world into a life worth living.

With gratitude, I smile. The soft light in my umber western sky has yet again arrived.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L Violo
• Release date: Dec 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994981509

L Violo

As the healing process began for me I found ways of unbelievable creativity. Forging a business partnership with a ridiculously talented being. We designed a lifestyle cookbook called “Bistro Bene” then we continued on writing and illustrating inspired children's books. We also launched a small at-home business called Love*Ambiance*Food. Where all of my genres collide as a private chef, encouraging the world with food, design and philosophy.I am single, healthy and whole. Full-time momma to my kids, my life is well. Peace truly does exist on the other side of the darkness.

Book preview

The Dedication

To all those that have been wounded by the disease of addiction, may you find your way into loving wisdom.

Love,

L

Summary

The darkness plays with light like a soft breeze, in and out of the sweetest sky. But the stunning colours of the dawn crack, exposing the grey. Then, without so much as a sound, the storm swirls in... smothers.

The twenty years of journaling my story, The Man in the Room, resembles this type of sky. Our universe requires us to move, to grow. Yet, it would seem to me, you cannot embrace change until you acknowledge the deepest center of yourself.

This progression requires me to expose the secrets of my family, which keep the sickness of dysfunction beating with a pulse, and bind us as to one another when we call each other friends.

While I wrote this book, emotional change overtook me. I loved and I grieved the moving parts of a little boy who became mine at four-and-a-half through incredible life circumstance. As I sit here in quiet reflection, I truly believe with all my heart that it has been my responsibility to acknowledge these days on paper. This writing affords me a certain luxury now, a permission slip, if you will. It gives me a measure of detachment from the outcome, the life choices of my son Toth as he slips in and out of addiction recovery.

This type of mental illness requires both a compassionate stance as a nurturer and the ability to draw a hard line. A boundary where I seriously consider my self-preservation.

This disease is punitive, robbing me of a child I adored with every ounce of my mothering heart.

My thoughts drift... I remember when Toth had enrolled himself in a recovery program. He asked me out for an accountability coffee; as we gathered our beverages, he spoke and I listened to his pain. He focused on all the ways I had hurt him in my parenting. There was no denying, no justifying this injured being before me. In the end I asked for forgiveness, told him how sorry I was. There was no kindness from Toth's heart that day. He had a firm grasp on his resentments, and I believe that to this moment, he clenches them tightly.

I left that coffee shop and wrote about my character defects. Ripping and tearing myself to shreds, I grieved in an agony I didn't know possible. I believe a part of me died like the shedding of an old skin. After I felt such release, my soul demanded it.

Right then, I decided to change the meaning of I love, It no longer meant I could keep this young man I had raised all these years. It now moved into I live, For my life's purpose, honoring the gifts that my hands provide to our universe. Since that day of rebirth, I have this incredible ability to discern and stay away from relationships that swallow me whole. Spitting out the chaotic pieces of that primary relationship with my adopted son has opened my world into a life worth living.

With gratitude, I smile. The soft light in my umber western sky has yet again arrived.

Prologue

Addiction is a family disease, everyone playing a part. The energy required to sustain the denial and lies sucks the life from all who share a space with the addict, creating anxiety that in turn feeds this disease. Chaos is the fuel on which addicted minds thrive, allowing them to establish confused, codependent relationships with great enabling qualities. This creates a spiritual bankruptcy so pervasive that the addicted mind takes whatever it wants, whenever it needs. The disease progresses, sneaky and spellbinding in its force. In these homes, no one thrives. No one grows. People die spiritually, emotionally, physically. They die.

In 1948, the Alberta Medical Association labeled addiction a primary disease with two components: one, physical; the other, brain chemistry. Physically, the body of an alcoholic metabolizes alcohol as a stimulant, whereas in the general population, alcohol functions as a depressant. Scientists believe addicts are created 50% by their environment, 50% by DNA. When exposed to drugs, alcohol, or anything else to do with the pleasure centers of the brain, an addict's mind becomes obsessed. Addiction is an incredibly self-centered, childish, grandiose disease, which will do anything in its power to continue to exist at the expense of the sufferer's relationships, wellbeing, and even life. Like other diseases, addiction can affect anyone, cutting across lines of gender, race, and class. The only choice when struggling with this illness is to not take that first drink, that first hit, that first pill whatever it is that you use to escape, making recovery a tricky process. Alcoholics Anonymous has a long-term success rate of 9 to 12%. The disease is cunning and controlling, requiring a self- diagnosis to treat. When one has hit a bottom, becoming aware of a need for change, that self-diagnosis can begin. This is why it is so important that those around the addict let them fall... fall hard, fall fast, away from the codependent, enabling relationships which keep the disease very much alive.

Coming from a third-generation family of addicts, I have a different story to tell. My eyes have always been incredibly wide open, and by the grace of God, my heart has remained true to the gifts I am here to fulfill. Not loyalty to a family that only ever knew dysfunction as its legacy. Going against my DNA to create a home of balance, love, space, creativity, and openness, allows me to have clarity in the face of a disease that blinds and wounds. By retaining a vigilant manner, one can become victor and not victim.

My grandfather is The Man in the Room. My mother's father, he is the shadow in my story. Even though he passed a decade ago, he remains as the source of our family's emotional corruption.

When my sister struggled with her own mental wellbeing, dragging her son through the unstable life she had created, he became available for adoption. I was the one to step into this life choice, with the purest of intentions: a deep love for this little boy. I truly believed that all the time, consistency, and effort of a stay-at-home mom, living with everything she has day after day, treating her children with love, joy, grace and hope, would be enough. I thought that if I protected my nephew over the course of his negative behavioral tendencies, we would overcome his natural inclination towards an addict mind. Toth's biological father is an addict, and his biological mother struggles with her own mental wellness, so I knew his predisposition was high. I thought that through my love and by doing all I could, I would be able to protect my adopted son from the disease that threatened to be his fate.

Then I woke up. A beautiful summer holiday morning, Toth walked into the room and the air stood still. The light had gone from his eyes, replaced with anger. A darkness so ugly, so deep. His only release would be substance abuse, fits of rage, and a vehement hatred for his once beloved family. When my heart resumed its necessary function, I realized we had not escaped the Man in the Room. My grandfather was sitting across from me, quickly manifesting his injured being on the people I loved and cherished most.

Read on as I fight using all that I am and all that I must learn to be in order to release my boy, who had become the man in my room.

SHADOW 1: THE MAN IN THE ROOM

THE ESSENCE OF MY GRANDFATHER

To a stranger passing by, I am no one of consequence. I strive to be a great nurturer in my life, which, by most standards, is quite good. Though I walk down the street and seem to affect no one, there are those whom I adore and crave to be near. Despite all this radiance around me, I know a lingering energy, which has shocked me to the core, still exists. I navigate through life haunted by his shadowy presence.

In the flesh, my grandfather, I called him Bampi, stood over six feet tall. A strapping man, his crystal blue eyes without softness. The kind of eyes that seem to forever long for something, though you can’t discern what.

This man abused his children in unthinkable ways. As a little girl, I could never grasp the extent of the damage he inflicted. Now, with the eyes of a woman, I watch constantly for his presence. Though he no longer physically resides on this earth, he is far from gone. I live on the alert for remainders of his darkness, which continues to threaten those I hold dear, seeking quiet permission to consume.

There is no escaping the emotional death that occurs here, in my ancestor's cavern of ruin. No discrimination as to whom his injured being will harm. We are all affected.

An armour of apathy cannot guard against this insidious monster. Even in the everyday simplicities, I see him... Waiting... Watching. He basks in his malicious love of others’ detachment and anxiety, which breeds fears that keep him very much alive.

With every choice I make, I know my grandfather is there, waiting for me to fail. He wants the boy who has become mine. He cannot have him.

I live with my every nerve alert to keeping his tentacles at bay. With each act of love I create, his barbs of anxiety diminish and peace resounds. When forgiveness is required and I give it graciously, I know it breeds anger in him, but it’s my turn to smile.

Six babies including my mother all suffered the immeasurable days of abuse, neglect, and horror. My mom's stories of her childhood to this day haunt my soul. He tormented them until they were old enough to escape. The door closed behind them, I'm sure they felt initial relief – an escape from the trauma that was never love, kindness, loyalty, or compassion.

No one anticipated the reverberations to come. How the man in the room, my Bampi, could stand quietly in the corners of their lives, generation after generation, watching with a humble satisfaction as they struggled to love, to parent, to be whole, and, saddest of all, to mean anything to one another.

Chapter One

The Call

As I step out of the shower, the ring of the phone jolts me to attention. I rush out, throw something on, grab at the phone, stub my toe, swear, and say a breathless, Hello?

Hey, L, it's Mary,

My heart races. Mary is my nephew's stepmom, not someone I'm used to hearing from. I hope Toth is okay. What's up? I ask.

Well, Toth has been left with Larz and I again. Your sister took off to Toronto yesterday with some guy,

I breathe deeply, disturbed and angered.

My sister Sameana gave birth to this sweet