Last summer, I returned home for a long weekend to visit my family and catch up with dear friends. As soon as I saw him, I knew something was different. He was fidgety. He was always fidgety, but this time he was fidgeting at what seemed to be 100 mph.  We were all gathered at a small local bar to share a drink in the company of old friends. But he was up and down. In and out. Hot and cold. Jumpy. Instead of talking to me, he seemed to look right through me. My heart broke. Not for the lack of sincere attention that was usually so characteristic of him, but for the dear sweet friend I once knew, who seemed to be lost in some other world.

 

His friends had told me earlier that evening that they were worried about him. "If he keeps going like this, he could end up dead in some alley. He is out of control." "What's he on?" I asked. "What is he not on?" his friend replied. His friends didn't know what to do. They had tried to talk to him, and he completely disregarded their concern. He was in control, of course. Why did he need help? That night I approached him at the bar when he was alone. I told him he seemed different, and asked him if he needed "help." I offered my concern. He looked at me with wild eyes, shrieked that he had no idea what I was talking about, and stormed out of the bar. This was not the guy I once knew.

 

I woke up the next morning and tears welled in my eyes just thinking of him. I was scheduled to leave early that evening but I knew in my heart that I could not leave without helping him. The only thing I could think of was to tell his parents what I suspected - because they loved him dearly, and would do everything they could to help him. We always had a very close relationship, and I felt comfortable expressing my concerns to them. And while I had never seen him take drugs with my own eyes, my intuition was never stronger. Within two hours I was sitting on their couch, explaining what I knew. Tears flowed freely amongst us, yet his parents were relieved to finally have an answer. Their suspicion and deepest fear had been confirmed and they were ready to act. The healing could begin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Oh, he was angry. I knew he would be. I was afraid of what his friends would think of me, afraid that they would think I was a ‘tattletale'. We were all so young and worried about the superficial. Yet at the same time we were all so very strong. And we didn't even know it. To my relief, when I told his close friends what I had done that day, they stepped up to help. They spoke with his parents too, and together they devised a plan to attract his attention, and attempt an intervention.

A quick stint in a locally-based rehab program failed to reach deep enough, and so a more individualized approach was needed. In their search for help, his parents stumbled upon a long term drug rehab program. And he was on a plane where his life would change forever.

I kept myself busy, and stayed in touch with his friends and family over the next few months, maintaining the status quo. And then, in late autumn I received a handwritten letter from him brimming with honesty and gratitude. He acknowledged how betrayed he initially felt. But then I read the words I had longed to hear him say: You saved my life. I longed for these words not because it spoke to my ego. I longed for them because I was so afraid that I had, quite literally, lost a friend. At that moment my heart soared and started to mend with news of his healing.

He was to graduate soon from a special program that not only helped him physically detoxify, but enabled him to look inside of himself, to address issues that caused his drug use to snowball into addiction, and to free himself from that pain. My dear friend was back, and in better shape than ever: physically, emotionally, and spiritually. His introspection and newfound love and acceptance of self was refreshing, and his plan for the future was inspiring.

He went on to become a role model, and traveled the region educating young kids about the dangers of drugs and the science of addiction. He told them his story. He told them my story. He told OUR story. He reached down into his soul and realized his own essence as a teacher, a motivator, and a beautiful friend, son, and brother.

Now his family and our friends shower me with thanks and with admiration to acknowledging the enormity of his success. I quietly accept the thanks, but I emphasize that it is not at all about me. I tell them I may have been a catalyst, but that the awe-inspiring beauty of his recovery is entirely his own.

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How does a parent handle and accept the fact that a child you have raised and taken good care of is addicted to drugs?
 
For me that was the toughest part to go through.  Once you can admit and accept this to yourself you are on the way to helping your child.
 
 A parent never wants to thinks this can happen to them and their family, but it does everyday.  Society spins so much glamour to our young -- drinking, recreational drugs and hard partying.  They make it seem as if it is their right of passage.
 
After accepting all these sad and horrible realities the next and most important step is finding the best facility to help your child.
 
We first tired an outpatient rehab.  But that was unsuccessful.  I had heard of so many unsuccessful stories of people with addictions and the rehabs they attended.  Many attended 21 or 30 day programs and after being home for awhile relapsed.  This is not what I wanted for my son.  After researching rehabs on the internet I found a non-12 step program.  Their method of recovery seemed to make so much sense to me.  A person that has an addiction needs more than the 21 or 30 days.  This type of rehab program provides structure, individual responsibility, awareness of ethical choices and so much more.
 
Eight years later he is well and happy.  He has been married to a wonderful person for three years.  We have our son back.  Thank you. 

 

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