This is it

Sam has physically been out of my life for more than a year now. The year before that was inconsistent at best. He relapsed, overdosed, sought treatment, came home, relapsed again, and so on... the same story on repeat.

I don’t have many pictures of us doing fun things together other than his heroin-laced skydive. I don’t have memories of his high school graduation, first prom, or driver’s test. He has missed many holidays with us. This blog is really my closest connection to him now.

The time other parents spend preparing their young adults for independent life is the time I use to write, or cry, about my son. I can’t see him, hug him, or take him to dinner. The only exception is phone calls, which are generally mundane at best.

When Sam calls me, I tell him about life out here. After a time, I shift the conversation back to his world but he rarely has much to say. Can you imagine asking your adult son what he has eaten that day every single time you talk to him? And also if there have been any fights, drama, or lock-downs in prison recently? Probably not.

Four and a half years ago, Sam's dad and I enrolled him in his first outpatient treatment. We were full of hope and confidence. I still love to hear his voice but times have changed. Now, he is a heroin addict in prison and our conversations often revolve around food.

I did not start to document and post my thoughts beyond my own circle until after Sam’s heroin overdose and also after he had given me permission to do so. Now, two years later, I am grateful that I decided to write. It is a painful read for me but a good reminder of my continuously failing efforts and complete lack of control over any aspect of my son's heroin use.

If Sam commits himself to sobriety, this reflection may be the greatest gift I can give him. If he returns to heroin, the words I have written may be all I have of the last years of his life.

I often get unnerved when I write about Sam’s heroin addiction because he actually CAN make the choice to live. Most illnesses don’t come with that “luxury”. Since I can’t make the decision for him, however, it feels more like a curse to me. Then, I feel guilty for feeling bad because he is a convicted felon who deserves to face his consequences.

This has been a recurring theme that has taken up residency in my head since I started posting more than two years ago: the huge chasm between what I feel and what I think I should feel. Sometimes, it is easy for me to put it all on him. Other times, I ruminate over what I, as his mom, could have done differently to prevent this.

I hear and read conversations between strangers who think that addicts like Sam are a result of bad parenting. They wonder what kind of parents must have raised a child that prefers a needle to life? Only parents of addicts face this stigma. The truth is, we think it too, at least in the beginning.

Some of us, usually the ones with kids in dire straights, never really shake it completely. This is why so many hide in shame. It is also why I decided to open up, in spite of the fact that I have not completely forgiven myself either.

I often carry the guilt and shame of feeling like an absolute failure while writing about how fucking hard it is to navigate life with someone whose greatest love is heroin. Something inside me believes that I really do deserve to feel this bad. I am his mother, I was supposed to prevent things like this from happening to my son.

Writing seems to be my way to move forward through the profound grief that I can’t shake. I long for the life that I imagined my son would live. I had no idea what it would look like but it did NOT include heroin, overdoses, lies, and prison.

Countless loved ones would give ANYTHING for their heroin addict to to have another opportunity at life. Unfortunately, for so many, it's too late. I am truly grateful that Sam has another chance to find a reason to stay sober.

My sole purpose in blogging is to provide a current, vulnerable, and honest perspective as the mom of a heroin addict. It is a dark read which is not meant to be popular with the masses but rather to find its way to those who might benefit. I want any person suffering in the silent worry, regret, shame, and fear of loving a heroin addict to know that they are not alone.

We may not know each other personally but our stories are like fraternal twins, not quite the same but pretty damn close. We can even finish many of each other's sentences, in a creepy but knowing sort of way. It's the bond we don't want but can't break. If you are one of us, I wish you peace. Namaste.

Where there is life, there is hope. Always in gratitude. #nomoreshame