… and my son is in the front seat. He gets the full thrill of the experience while I try to peer around him to figure out what he is seeing. Sometimes he takes off his seat belt and leans forward for a better view. I yell above the din: don’t do that, get back, put the seatbelt back on. Other times he stands up in his seat, arms akimbo. I grab his pant belt. We’re going too fast. It’s dangerous. I can’t breath.
There’s no one in control of the ride. How did we get on this scary ride? Why did I get on?
I want off but the rollercoaster never stops. I can’t get off. I climb to a seat further back. But then he stands up again. I can’t reach my son to hold him safely so I clamber back up to the seat behind him.
The ride goes up, then we swoosh downward. Up, up, up, and then swoosh, down down down. Up and down. Up and down. The ride never stops.
This is my life, not a bad dream.
My son is a junkie. He has been using heroin for 10 months. He just turned 20 five months ago.