“I don’t think I can go more than four hours without stepping on broken glass. Of course, this is a metaphor. It’s the best way to describe how I feel when the painful realization resurfaces.
My sweet baby, my firstborn son, is homeless, mentally ill and addicted to heroin.
I doubt you can imagine the emotions I hold in my heart, let alone comprehend what I’ve witnessed over the last 10 years. You can’t imagine how I’ve suffered because frankly, there are no words to describe the depth and darkness of my nightmare.
Truth be told, you can’t imagine because I don’t have the courage to share my story with very many people. I stylishly sparkle on my exterior while my guts gurgle up into my throat. I have one pedicured foot in each world; the public and the private, and I desperately want to open my heart. I want to pull you close and tell you this was not supposed to happen to us.
I’ve been told that addiction is a matter of willpower or something that happens to bad people.
I’ve been told that addiction is the result of poor parenting.
I’ve also overheard your nasty comments about worthless junkies and I shrink inside my shell; afraid that my fury-fueled grief may cause me to say something or do something I’ll regret.
My boy came into the world on a rainy December afternoon. He welcomed a baby brother 23 months later, and by kindergarten, he demonstrated leadership skills. Two healthy kids, a home in an affluent neighborhood and not a real care in the world.
Fast forward through private schools and therapists… then to juvenile hall, county jail, and state prison. What the hell happened?
When did I become a mom who cries herself to sleep, swaddled in thick guilt?
When did I become a grown woman paralyzed by late-night calls from unknown numbers?
I dread holiday celebrations, graduations, and family gatherings. I listen politely to the Norman Rockwell-esque proclamations of your children’s achievements, and I’m just hoping my son is still alive.