“The sins of the fathers are visited on the sons.” But I am writing about the sins of the mother – my sins. I am writing about the pain and hopelessness of knowing a child is living with addiction, abuse and neglect. I am writing about my children and their children – bearing witness and feeling the pain my own mother endured.

I met my first husband, G., through his younger siblings. We grew up in the same small town and socialized with the same group of people. The favorite pastime in the group was hanging out on the corner and getting stoned.

G. and his young wife were my next-door neighbors. I was 18 and he was 21 – I only mention our youth as an excuse for what followed. As you can probably guess, we had an affair. I am sure it broke my mother’s heart, but it was nothing compared to the pain I later would inflict on four generations of women in my family.

Within a year, G. and I had our first child, a beautiful little girl. A year after that we were married, and then came our second beautiful little girl. Two little treasures. From the outside, our lives looked picture-perfect. But behind closed doors, we were dealing with G.’s alcoholism and our addiction to marijuana. We partied whenever we had the opportunity, passing our daughters off on whomever could take them – more often than not, my mother.

Our addictions became more “sophisticated” later on. Our drug of choice was cocaine.

G. became physically and emotionally abusive – and yet I was unable to end our relationship for another 14 years. This was the time of my worst shame and my mother’s greatest agony. She tried every way she could to get me to do the right thing, but she could not get through to me.

My addiction to cocaine ended when, entering my older daughter’s room one day, I witnessed her holding a straw up to her nose and pretending to snort “just like Mommy and Daddy.” She was just a toddler.

Shortly after this episode, I threw G. out and attempted to get my life back on track. But my addiction to G. didn’t end, and he soon came back for the first of many reconciliations full of promises and bearing what became known over the years as “I’m-a-jerk gifts” by me and my children.

I realize now what my mother knew – that I did not deserve the privilege of having those little girls then, or for a long time after.

The physical abuse escalated as G.’s addictions grew. Mostly, it was alcohol, but cocaine was always there, on and off. G. didn’t care that our daughters were present, or what effect this would have on them later on. You see, this pain is reserved for the mothers – we pay for all the heartache our children suffer later on when they repeat our mistakes. We are forced to bear silent witness as our daughters choose – because I now see it for what it is, choice – to live in conditions worse than some Third World countries. This “choice” is made out of fear, ignorance, addiction and cruelty.

My precious grandchildren have no beds, their clothes do not fit, and they are left to supervise each other (the oldest child is 10, the youngest a newborn). They live on my daughter’s disability payments and the majority of that goes for marijuana and beer. My daughter’s home and her person are unkempt. My older daughter visits them and returns heartsick. She calls me, looking for solutions and comfort.

I watch as my addicted child and her addicted spouse play out scenes from my first marriage, dancing the same macabre dance in front of their children, their treasures. I am forced into silence because I have tried to speak out, as my mother tried before me, and now I am banished from their lives.

I contacted Child Protective Services and was told that these precious lives, my daughter’s included, are not in danger! Why can’t they see what is so very clear? We pay so much lip service to “saving the children” here and across the globe, when more often than not we need to save our own children from ourselves.

Addiction among the women in my family has the strong potential to be passed into yet another generation, as one of my daughter’s precious children is a girl. How will she grow up, and what will she pass on to her own children?

I finally left my abuser and went into the Family Violence Project – a life-saving organization that provided safety, shelter, counseling and support while I got my life together. But it was too late, it seems, to stop the cycle of addiction.

Mothers, heed my warning! The pain you endure at the hands of your abuser is nothing compared to the pain of watching your children, and your children’s children, repeat your mistakes.

To contact the Family Violence Project or another support agency near you, call the free statewide domestic violence help line at (866) 834-HELP. Addition information is available at the Web site of the Maine Coalition to End Domestic Violence, www.mcedv.org.

Please join our weekly conversation about Maine’s substance abuse problem. We welcome stories, comments or questions from all perspectives. Letters may be mailed to Finding a Fix, c/o Bangor Daily News, P.O. Box 1329, Bangor 04401. Send e-mail contributions to column editor Meg Haskell at mhaskell@bangordailynews.net or phone her at 990-8291.