Creative Corner

Its long, but I wrote it from the heart...

I am the mother of a heroin addict. Society dictates that I should be embarrassed or ashamed of that fact. But heroin is a formidable rival, and forces me to be nonconformist to society's rules. I care not what judgments are formed of me, as heroin does not give me that option. I live my life on a roulette wheel transitioning through the 5 stages of grief. They come and go in no particular order.

The terms 'junkie' and 'burn out' at one time meant nothing to me. Today those same terms sting, as I am acutely aware that my child, the baby I snuggled with, the curious little boy, the teen who was always playing a prank, had now become by society's terms, a 'junkie'. I am the mother of a heroin addict, but I am also the mother of a young man, who is still, a human being.

I sleep lightly, if at all. I am ever aware of the tell tale signs--the harsh mood swings, the excessive sleepiness, skin breakouts, the new friends, whose names I've not heard before. From the pit of my belly comes the reminder-I am the mother of a heroin addict. I hopelessly watch as he loses jobs, old friends and as family member gradually begin to keep their distance.

I justify his behavior with 'what ifs' and 'maybes' the classic terms of denial, only to find syringes and other paraphernalia that seem to sneer at me and tell me again, I am the mother of a heroin addict. I feel my anger turning inward as I wonder what I did to create this. I angrily place blame on his new friends or his life situations that surely must have caused this. I am lied to, stole from and cursed out all in the name of heroin. I refuse to give him money, and take away his phone with all those evil contacts in it, only to see the track marks, and once again realize I am the mother of a heroin addict, and a manipulating, resourceful one at that. Soon its evident that I am alone in his court, as all but I and heroin have abandoned him. Yet I refuse to admit its from heroin. Its so much easier to pretend it isn't there. I am the mother of a heroin addict and I am in denial.

Slowly I begin to realize this thief, that is heroin, has stolen his very soul and enslaved me as well. I accept that he is addicted. Then I wonder, Will today be the day he overdoses? Will he now steal from me? Will he introduce this thief to another unsuspecting young person? Will today be the day he goes to jail? The swelling anxiety forces me to remember once again, I am the mother of a heroin addict.

I begin to attempt to bargain with him. I tell him 'just get a job and pass a drug test' and life will go back to normal for us. His blatant refusal to do either remind me again that I am the mother of a heroin addict, who has now attempted to bargain with my shell of a child, of course, to no avail.

The tears I cry are hallow, as if heroin is laughing at me, taunting me, reminding me again that it not only stole my child's soul, it is slowly taking mine as well. I cry and ask over and over 'why'? Why would God do this to us? I am the mother of a heroin addict, and I am depressed.

And then one day it happened. The Epiphany. The day I accepted that I am the mother of a heroin addict, but I have done my grieving. It has stolen my son and turned him into a hallow shell of who he once was. But it cannot take me. It cannot take my memories. Those wonderful memories that were made before heroin took over his soul and made me the mother of a heroin addict. Through all of the grief and pain it caused, heroin did not realize that at the same time it was destroying my child, it was creating a warrior out of me. I shed no tears for heroin, and I will not give up hope that one day my son finds the proper treatment and is able to recover. I love him dearly, though I am forced now to show it by refusing to enable him anymore. I am the mother of a heroin addict. I cannot change that, but my child can, by simply saying "I am a heroin addict and I need help". Eight words to change a life. So I continue to hope, that one day, he will say them