Did I miss my chance? Was there an escape hatch I didn’t take?
Recollecting the challenges from when my son was only 13 and when his troublesome behavior became unmanageable, my cynical comment to a friend was:
At the rate he’s going he’ll be homeless by 16.
It was just a gut feeling. And now in hindsight, a premonition. No part of our lives back then included street drugs. But I knew something wasn’t right for him. An unhappiness at his core.
I allowed myself a certain optimism. The belief that his traits could lead him to a remarkable future. Qualities like his indistractible ability to focus, his memory recall or the unusual way he sees things. I imagined how these characteristics could have made him an amazing researcher or scientist. Like an Edison or Da Vinci. Or like our family’s quirky inventor-uncle.
But, of course, I didn’t see how wrong things would eventually go. Or how quickly. One hit of H and there was no going back. No easy out.
When I had that premonition I thought I would somehow be able to scoop up the family and find a way to redirect the path. I imagined the family would all pile into a sailboat to cruise the world. Or hitch up a 5th-wheeler and travel overland. There would be so much to see and experience that a substance like heroin wouldn’t come close to competing with all the wonders of the world.
We’d leave H behind to eat our dust.
All I want is to take him into my arms and steal him away from all this darkness.