Today I drove to the mountains and it was raining sideways and the wind sounded like a chorus of ghosts on a Halloween soundtrack. My car inched up the mountain road, hazards on, with likely no more than 100 feet of visibility. And I figured something out about parenting. I can talktalktalk and talk to my adult kids imparting the most insightful revelations I've ever heard. I can make so much sense to myself that I get chills, and think "I am amazing. My command of the Engli

So many people ask: "Aren't you mad? Furious? Where's the anger? If I were you, I'd rage. Not give him the time of day. Say 'You're out.' Done. I've got nuthin' for you here." I respond: Stop Asking Me where's the anger. I don't know. I. Don't. Know. I can't find it. I know I should have it, unleash it, change the weather. But it's not here. Maybe it's buried under the rubble. Waiting to pounce after I've lifted myself from the ground. The gratitude that he's alive keep

"The advice given too often is that we can't help our children. We are told that tough love is the only way and we must let them hit their bottom. This black and white, cookie cutter approach must change. Each child together with his family brings a different dynamic. Each family is unique. Too many, including parents, are giving advice to kick loved ones out of the house, to detach, to let them hit bottom. Tough love can work for some, however, we must respect all paths to r

...there's hope. Truths have been revealed and yes he did bad things. Took deadly drugs. Many bad things. I believe his mind and body were taken over by something dark and craving and manipulative and lying. People say I'm in denial. He's just a bad seed. I shouldn't waste my time and money on him. Cast him aside and let him figure things out on his own. He either will, or he won't. He'll either live, or die. But No. TO ME, that approach feels appalling. Abhorrent. Wrong.

What to do. I know not what to do. Still. Day 3 in the Trenches and I'm moving in circles. It's dizzying. Tough love. Soft love. No love. Every kind of love. Russian Roulette. The boy plays Russian Roulette. Recreational drug use kills. One kid dies from a drug overdose every 19 minutes. I fixate. My breathing is shallow. Is his breathing shallow as well? Too shallow? Oh my God. Is he breathing at all? My hands shake. These thoughts cause too much adrenaline to shoot throug

When you learn some terrible terrible news and then go to bed…the next day you awaken from a night of fitful sleep and reality nudges you. It whispers "hey you" and taps you on your forehead. Then a heavy thing in the air pushes down on your chest and you remember…Fuck. Oh Fuck. This is what’s happening. This is the reality. The boy is taking opiates, bad drugs, like those kids, those other kids who died, those other kids who he hangs out with. He is angry and defensive and h

Why do these 20 something boy addicts have to say such hurtful things? Why can’t they see that they are talking to the one person in the world who would stand in front of a train for them. Who would cut off her arm? Take a bullet? All of the clichés apply. I love my son more than life, and-but-and he says things to me that break my heart. “Don’t take it personally. It’s the disease talking. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.” Yes, I try to abide by that sage wisdom, but still

My son and I have a conversation when he’s about to start high school, “You don’t do drugs, do you Zachary?” “No Mom, I’m not stupid.” “But really, Zach, so many kids do these days. You can tell me anything, you know?” “Mom, I’ve already told you, I’m not stupid. I saw what happened to Dad.” “Right.” his father lost everything, including us, to his cocaine addiction. And so I trust my son while he stumbles through high school. His grades aren’t so good, he goes out a lot, and