Random Thoughts from the Mother of a Heroin Addict
I can fix her. All I have to do is love her enough and she’ll want to change. Maybe help her pay her bills, ease her stress. Pay for her suboxone so she doesn’t buy it on the street. Keep a close eye on her. Pray harder. I know I can fix her. Maybe?
Where are my spoons?!
Did she steal money from my Christmas money envelope in my closet? Maybe I only had one hundred dollar bill in there (but I know I had two).
Whenever I see her name come up on my phone, my head feels hot, my heart pounds and I feel sick to my stomach. That horrifies me! What kind of mother feels that way about her own child? It feels like PTSD. I’m having an anxiety attack. What does she want now? Will she ask for money. Again? How can I say no — she’s my baby girl! I have to say no. Please, God. Don’t let her ask for money. Not today anyway. I can’t do this.
Whenever we drive down a certain street and see the young women in flip flops and yoga pants, their hair in messy buns on top of their heads, walking with their backpacks, talking to men in cars parked at gas stations or convenience stores, my husband and I not-so-secretly think to ourselves, “That’s our daughter on another street somewhere, in another city 500 miles away.” And our hearts break.
I have to turn my phone off at night. If she overdoses, if she dies, she will still be dead in the morning and I have to get some sleep.
She doesn’t have a job. She lives in a hotel. I don’t want to know how she’s making her money, but I know. If I think about it too much — well, I can’t. It’s too much.
The other day was a bad day. I bought funeral clothes “just in case.” What is happening to me? Have I lost hope? Hope is for chumps, not for moms of heroin addicts.
Her drug buddy has been clean now for over a year. He’s got a job and a girlfriend and a happy mom. When is it MY turn?
Saw her posting on Facebook today. She’s still alive, so why does it feel like I’ve lost her? I’ve lost my baby girl.
Dear God, please help her. She’s already overdosed at least six times. If not rehab, then maybe jail? Anything to keep her from sticking a needle in her arm.
I want my daughter back. I miss her.
– Anonymous, Writer