God, My Late-Night Therapist

Man, I tell you what—God is the best therapist in life. It’s 1:45 in the morning, and God just woke me up for a therapy session.

As you know, I’ve been blogging for almost two weeks now. The words have been pouring out of me, taking me back in time, unlocking memories I thought I had buried forever. I didn’t understand what God was doing or why the words flowed so effortlessly. My friends and family kept encouraging me to keep writing, telling me there were people who could relate—and maybe even heal—from my story.

So, I kept going.

When I reached the part where I shared my feelings about my mother’s death, God told me to write it in parts. I did. Yesterday, I reread Part 2. I thought nothing of it at first—it was a painful time, I told my story, the end, right?

Wrong.

God revealed something to me that I had never truly understood before. Yesterday, I admitted that I was angry when my mother died, but when I read further, I realized something deeper: I resented my family long before she passed.

I had volunteered to be the caretaker, but deep down, I resented them for it. I watched my mother care for everyone, sacrificing herself over and over for friends and family, yet in her darkest moments, no one seemed to be there for her. I blamed them for her death. I blamed them for taking her from me. And yet, I stepped right into her shoes—picked up the mantle and walked the same path.

I chose that path.

Yesterday, I ended my blog saying I had stepped into the devil’s den, and since I wasn’t talking to God, no one could stop me. I was talking about my years of drug addiction. Here’s the crazy part: I already knew what drugs could do. I had watched family members and my ex-husband struggle with addiction. I had supported them through it. So when I decided to take my own slow death walk, I knew exactly what I was doing.

I chose drugs because they would numb me enough not to care—about how I looked, what people thought, or what was expected of me. I created an alter ego, completely opposite from who I had always been, to deal with the rage and resentment I carried for losing my mother and for constantly trying to please people.

This wasn’t just addiction. This was the rotten root that smelled, was dead and caused the symptoms that presented as addiction. This was where my passive-aggressive behaviors exploded. This was a mental breakdown behind the curtains of grief.

I remember the exact day it happened.

I had moved into my mother’s home after she passed. I moved there to take care of her garden disguised as my aunt, stepfather, uncle, two sisters, three foster sisters, and my cousin. My husband, two babies, and I left our own home to be there. From day one, I knew the shoes I was trying to fill were too big for me, but I tried. I lasted about a year.

Then my aunt got sick. At her doctor’s appointment, we got the devastating news—cancer. She had been living with a hole in her side for a year, hiding it from us because she didn’t want to add to our grief after Mom’s passing.

I snapped.

Not outwardly, but inside, everything collapsed. I told her I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go through that again. Shortly after, my husband and I packed up our kids, left New Jersey, and moved to Georgia—away from all of it.

We stayed in Georgia for a few years, and eventually my sisters followed. But, just like before, I found myself back in the caretaker role. My husband relapsed into drugs, we lost everything, and eventually, I returned to my mother’s house—alter ego in tow.

At first, things seemed fine. Aunt Gloria managed her illness, my sisters and I worked, and she took care of the kids. She kept the family running—hot meals, laughter, comfort. At night, after the kids were in bed, we went out.

At first, it was harmless—letting our hair down, dancing, meeting people. Then it stopped being about fun. For me, it became about numbing. Drinks turned into cocaine. Cocaine turned into freebasing. Freebasing turned into a relationship with a known drug dealer. That turned into violence. That violence turned into chaos—and I was the one creating it.

I was punishing God, or so I thought.

I became mean, hard, and unapologetic. My alter ego took over. Even my father—the man I once idolized—wasn’t safe from my anger. One day, my sister called him to “talk some sense into me.” When he arrived, all I saw was the man who had abandoned me, the man I couldn’t depend on. My rage boiled over.

“I’m a grown-ass woman. You can’t tell me what to do. I’ll do what the hell I want,” I told him—in front of everyone—before turning on my heel, going upstairs, and taking another hit.

I had never spoken to my father like that before. But alter ego Valerie didn’t care. She wanted everyone to pay for her pain.

Months went by in this haze until a family member hit me with the truth: "Your mother would roll over in her grave if she saw you this way.”

That cut deep—but I was still drowning.

Then, my unexpected savior showed up—my ex-husband. The same man I had left in Georgia because of his drug use. The same man who had disappointed me and our kids. He saw past my addiction and recognized my pain. He forgave me. He helped me. He understood that this was a dark place that I was visiting. It wasn’t who I was meant to be. Years later, I would extend him that same grace, that same understanding.

I gave him 24 hours to save my life—and he did.

He bought me a bus ticket out of state to my aunt’s house. He stayed behind with our oldest daughter so she could finish her fourth grade year at school, then moved our belongings. He rescued me from my own destruction. That day will forever be proof that even when you make your bed in hell, God will come for you. He will not leave you.

Now, I see it clearly—my resentment was misplaced. My family never asked me to save them. I stepped into that role because I needed to feel needed. It filled the emptiness of losing my mom. The problem wasn’t loving or helping my family—it was not setting boundaries.

I realize now that my alter ego was my pain wearing a mask. She didn’t care about disappointing people—or even herself. She was my shield against vulnerability.

But today, I know I am not all good or all bad. I am human. I am flawed. I can be stubborn. I am strong. I have moments of weakness. I can be mean. I cuss, I fuss, I am worthy, I am purposed. I cry, I laugh. I overdo. I forget. I apologize. I forgive. I am forgiven.

Every day, I try to be the best me that I can be. Sometimes I get it right. Sometimes, I miss the mark, but I’m trying to learn the lessons. I’m trying to heal. It is my hope that through my healing I can give others, especially those I love, permission to walk their own journey of healing. Then we all can graduate to the next level in this journey.

Most importantly, I hear, listen to, and embrace the voice of God. I’m so grateful that even in my ignorance, He didn’t repay me with punishment—He loved me more.