WHEN GRIEF OPEN THE DOOR RHR

Chapter: When Grief Opened the Door

Grief didn’t come crashing in all at once.

It slipped in quietly, like a draft under the door.

Ken had been in our lives for years. He wasn’t blood, but he was family. We met through a chat line and became friends before anything else. Over time, he became part of everything — birthdays, holidays, camping trips, school talks, late-night advice. He dressed up as Santa for my kids. Took them to the river dunes. Taught Danielle how to drive. Showed up when others didn’t.

He was steady.

When so many men came and went, Ken stayed.

He and I didn’t always agree. The week before he died, we argued about Anthony’s grades. I told him he needed to buckle down harder on my son. Words were said that shouldn’t have been said. I was defensive. He was protective. We both loved Anthony, but pride got in the way.

I never got to fix it.

In 2018, Ken died from a massive heart attack. He died in my son’s arms.

When my sister called and told me to sit down, I was outside walking my dog. I remember screaming — a sound I didn’t recognize as my own. It ripped through me. The kind of scream that comes from somewhere deep in your stomach.

Ken was gone.

And the last thing between us was an argument.

Grief does something strange. It doesn’t just make you sad. It brings guilt. It replays the last conversation on a loop. It whispers, You should’ve said sorry. You should’ve handled that differently.

One drink turned into half a bottle a day.

I told myself it was just to take the edge off. Just to sleep. Just to quiet the noise in my head. But the truth was, I didn’t want to feel the weight of losing him. I didn’t want to feel the guilt sitting in my chest like a brick.

I was already fragile. Homelessness. Stress. Trying to hold myself together in front of my kids. Ken had been a support beam in a house that was already cracking.

When that beam fell, the house started to shake.

Leigh came into my life during those shelter days at Higher Ground in St. Paul. At first, I thought she was a little off. Loud. Emotional. Intense.

But one day we sat down and really talked.

And everything changed.

We became best friends.

In a place where people were constantly moving in and out, where trust was fragile and gossip traveled faster than truth, Leigh was solid. She saw me. Not the rumors. Not the “4th floor hoe” people whispered about. Not the addict. Not the woman with too many guy friends.

She saw Dawn.

We laughed together. Walked together. Ventured through grief together. When Ken died, she walked beside me while I cried so hard I could barely breathe. She didn’t try to fix it. She just stayed.

And sometimes that’s the most powerful thing a person can do.

But grief doesn’t leave when the funeral ends.

It lingers.

I tried to keep functioning. I dated. I pretended. I hid how much I was drinking. I hid how much I was unraveling.

Then one day in treatment, I couldn’t get ahold of Leigh.

Tuesday, we talked.

Wednesday, nothing.

Thursday, nothing.

Friday, nothing.

All I knew was she had been sick. A cold. Tooth pain. High blood pressure. I kept telling her to call the doctor.

Finally, I asked for a welfare check.

They found her in her apartment. She had been dead for four days.

Four days.

Alone.

When the police called me back, I was standing in treatment. The floor felt like it dropped out from under me again — just like it did with Ken.

Another scream. Another loss. Another person I loved, gone without goodbye.

Two people who had anchored me — gone within a short span of time.

People say, “Stay strong.”

But strength gets tired.

After Ken died, I drank to numb the guilt.

After Leigh died, I smoked to quiet the anger.

I was angry at the world.

Angry at God.

Angry at shelters.

Angry at myself for surviving when they didn’t.

At her small memorial, we all smoked weed to say goodbye. I didn’t care about treatment rules in that moment. I cared about not feeling like my insides were collapsing.

That choice cost me my bed in treatment.

And I ended up back in shelter January 18th.

Again.

Here’s the truth about grief and relapse:

It’s not just about wanting to get high.

It’s about wanting relief.

When you’ve already lived through trauma — abuse, homelessness, instability — grief doesn’t land on solid ground. It lands on cracked pavement. It seeps into every fracture.

Ken’s death brought guilt.

Leigh’s death brought abandonment.

Together, they brought a storm.

I didn’t relapse because I didn’t love my kids.

I didn’t relapse because I didn’t care.

I relapsed because I didn’t know how to sit inside pain that big without anesthesia.

Substances became my pause button.

But the pause never lasts.

Every high ended. Every bottle emptied. And grief was still there — heavier than before.

What shaped my relapse wasn’t weakness.

It was unprocessed loss stacked on top of unresolved trauma.

And the hardest part?

I loved deeply. I always have. Even when it destroys me.

But loving deeply is not the problem.

Not knowing how to grieve safely is.

Ken taught my children stability.

Leigh taught me loyalty.

Their deaths forced me to see something painful:

I couldn’t keep running from pain and expect my life to change.

Grief opened the door to relapse.

But it also opened the door to truth.

I had to learn how to feel without drowning.

How to mourn without destroying myself.

How to forgive myself for arguments I never got to fix.

Because if I didn’t, I was going to lose more than friends.

I was going to lose myself.

If you’d like, next we can write:

• A chapter called “The Shelter Years” (deep dive into Higher Ground)

• A chapter about the love of your life and rebuilding trust

• Or the chapter where real recovery begins — not just stopping drugs, but healing

Your story isn’t just about relapse.

It’s about a woman who keeps surviving the unbearable.

And that matters.