Of Dreams and Nightmares

I'd been so proud of him for the past six years. I knew it was hard to decide to stop using meth, yet he had. It was a family affair to keep him hopeful and straight. I drove him to Narcotics Anonymous meetings every night. I allowed him to sleep for hours on end, knowing he was waging a battle within his brain and body. Finally, one day he started working out with weights. His appetite increased, his mood was good, no longer dark. I knew he felt hopeful for his future. We bought him his own car, and he'd go out, looking for work. One day he returned triumphant, having gotten a job as a bank teller, soon he was to begin training. I was ecstatic, he'd turned a major corner. He worked at the job for two years, then decided to leave the bank and work for the county. I applauded his decision, I knew there was more room for growth.

It was wonderful to see him grow, the years on drugs had stunted his growth emotionally. He'd been a boy, then a man, quick to laugh, eager to please. During his initial drug usage, he withdrew, stopped laughing, stopped relating to his family and friends, all but cutting off all contact. So, the six years of sobriety had brought him full circle, back to the wonderful young man everyone loved. And then, like a dream, it's once again gone. The nightmare had returned, his and mine.

I'd left my thirty-five year old son in charge of the house and my three dogs. Speaking of the dogs, they were running outside in the yard, barking, thin, seemingly wild.

As soon as I left my garage, I felt in my gut that something was wrong. The first sign of it; the overflowing garbage can in the breezeway. I moved it aside and opened the kitchen door. It's as though my kitchen had been abandoned in a state I can only describe as a homeless encampment. There was trash all over the floor, pots of molding food on the filthy stove, dirty dishes stacked everywhere. This was just my initial look at the mess. Just like a train wreck you don't want to look, but cannot turn away from. I struggled to grasp what could have happened in the two weeks I was away.

I saw rotten food in their bowls which had not been touched in days, evidenced by the flies and maggots now squirming in abstract patterns on the dark brick floor. I grabbed a can of bug spray and tried to eliminate the next generation of them. It wasn’t just flies and maggots, but ants in full marching columns, everywhere. I brushed a few from my legs and continued to spray... until I could no longer breathe. It was a sign of great magnitude. Seen through my anger, I did not recognize it. I stood there, surrounded in filth, wondering what had happened here. An eerie silence enveloped my thoughts, a silence which betrayed the mounting realization that I had lost my son, again.

After six years of a drug and alcohol free life, my kitchen shouted to me of this renewed betrayal.

It was all I could do to keep myself from crumbling in a heap of sorrow. My heart was breaking. I tore off a paper towel and grimly wiped the floor of the dead insects. They blackened the towel, just as the realization had blackened my hopes. Damn those drugs. I never could understand the hold they had over him. I'd learned, from my son, he had to resist them one day at a time, so strong was the lure. I knew for sure now that he'd lost the battle he fought so diligently for years, probably in a matter of seconds. I couldn't fathom how he must have felt, the moment he made the decision to once again succumb to the crystal meth. I'm sure the moments after were hell in the making.

I walked around the rest of the house, tears streaming down my face, unable to say anything about the destruction I saw. There was toilet paper stuffed up the nostrils of a beautiful mask I had gotten in Bali years ago. Filth was everywhere, a party gone completely mad, with no regard to the consequences. I climbed the staircase to see how the upstairs faired, one step at a time, until they elevated me to a vantage point of seeing the entire downstairs. I sunk down onto the landing and wept into my hands. It wasn't the condition of my house that cause my despondency. It was the certain knowledge, that right then, my son was somewhere, probably high, embarrassed and feeling guilty, and there was nothing I could do about it.

*********************


Update: Dec. 2005 marked one year in rehab, I got to see my son during the holidays, and he is doing so well, working and going to school while still staying in rehab for his second year.

The latest, June 29, 2006: My son will be coming home to visit for five days in July. He still has five months in the program, but is working and attending classes in carpentry! I am extremely proud of him, and look forward to seeing him at home. Thank you God.

Update: March 24, 2007. My son finished his two year residency clean, sober and full of life, on Dec. 1, 2006. He now works full-time, still goes to school on Saturdays, and continues to grow and prosper. He calls us every weekend, thanks us for our unwavering support, and tells us he loves us. Thank God for miracles.