The days lengthen.
Summer's here with its light and roses and uplift in mood. We've put the bad stuff behind us. Daughter comes home from university for the holidays. She pitches up in her old room. She and Son communicate little. Music comes from both bedrooms, plates and mugs and piles of clothes accumulate upstairs. Various people come in and out. Doors bang. People laugh and talk, all appears well. The phone rings constantly. These are the dark days before mobiles. Daughter and I gossip and bitch, have shopping days and go to the theatre. She catches up with a few old friends. Son's friends are familiar faces, most of them friendly and funny. He seemed back to normal. I didn't know what he was taking to achieve this normality. Daughter, Husband and I touch on The Incident but skim over things. We all think it will go away. The summer drifts on, sunny days, rainy days, grey days. Suddenly it's August and Daughter is preparing to return to her other life. I am gutted. We all go to Chinatown in Manchester. Our destination of choice for celebrations, farewells and any old excuse. We sit with our chopsticks and favourite dishes, making the same old jokes. We look like your average dysfunctional family. The evening goes well, we even have a few beers together in the garden when we arrive home. Finally, sadly, Daughter boards the train, heaving her huge rucksack on board. I cry. Husband cries. We return home to the nearly quiet house. We decide to book a holiday. Son will be alright alone won't he? Won't he? We can trust him now, can't we? Can't we? ....
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The bad physical stuff lasts about 4 days.
He looks ghastly, normal and ghastly again in the space of a few hours. His mood swings from euphoria to moroseness. Rattling they call it in the business. We try to help but it's a lone battle. Somehow we all get through the days. On the 5th day he emerges looking remarkably unscathed. He has plans to return to work, give up alcohol, coffee, chocolate. He will eat healthily, take up running and do a marathon. Husband is enthusiastic. I am more circumspect. Slowly, slowly. One step at a time I venture. "You're being negative." Says Husband. "Realistic." I reply. I'm drowned out in the flow of grandiose plans. New regimes and change of mindset sound good but are hard to maintain. My slowly, slowly is dismissed. Who knows? He and Husband could have the right attitude. I am of an anxious (as is Son) disposition. I view things differently. Maybe some sort of middle ground? Who knows? So. Conclusion. We stock up on fruit, veg, nuts, water. All the ingredients of a so-called healthy lifestyle. He looks at membership of various running clubs. What stance do I take? I veer between encouragement and caution. However. He has emerged from literal and metaphorical gloom. Rising like a Phoenix from the ashes of his former self. He acts as though none of the bad stuff has happened.' It's history. Gone. I think he should reflect on it then, hopefully lessons are learned. He brushes this aside saying he's moving on. To use that ghastly phrase. We're so relieved it's all over. (Haha) We collude with him by pretending he's had flu, he's fine now and will be returning to work. He does just that. Normal service is resumed. For the moment... The morning of detox day is grey and drizzly.
A metaphor for all our moods. Son has 2 bottles of Methodone and an envelope full of Valium to help with the effects of detox. These drugs have been bought from an illegal source. There are drugs for starting out, regular use, high end use, coming down and going up. Drugs to get you out of bed, make you normal. There are suppliers at the end of the phone. They will deliver a takeaway in a matter of minutes. They will sell you Methodone because they know you'll be back on heroin in the future. But for the moment we don't accept this fact. So the fight begins. He asks us to stop him going out should he attempt it. This immediately makes us nervous. How do we do that if he's intent? We have no idea how this works, it's not something we're familiar with. It's like being a parent. You inch along in the dark, play it by ear. The day crawls on. Son hunkers down under the duvet, by turns sweating and freezing. He takes Ibuprofen for the pains all over his body. The only legal drug he's taken for months. We all drink countless cups of tea. I veer between feelings of sympathy, helplessness and rage. And of course, the now familiar, guilt. I want to hold him and I want to kill him. Apparently the physical symptoms are nothing compared to the psychological battle. I take him food which is untouched. I am resentful. Husband and I take turns to go out and then we mooch about the house in an aimless fashion. We drink coffee and argue quietly. Meanwhile he is quiet. I dread him coming downstairs. Radio 4 bongs 6 o'clock. I go into the kitchen. I'll make tea, it's something to do. I open a bottle of wine. I go upstairs with a heavy heart. "Do you want some food?" "No, thanks." "Are you alright?" Haha. "Any wine going?" I leave the bottle and return to the kitchen and open another. The perils of booze to be discussed at a later date. For now it's a good crutch. Husband goes up, comes down looking strained. Says "he looks terrible." We eat pasta. Say little. Stare at the telly. We're both exhausted and prepare for bed. We lock every means of exit and take the keys to bed. All quiet from the dreaded bedroom. I can't face it. Husband goes in. I hear voices going on and on. After a while his door closes and Husband comes to bed. I open my book, preparing for a long night. Husband puts his head on the pillow and promptly falls asleep. I would kill for the gift of sleep tonight. Little do I know. There will be many more sleepless nights to come... Husband and I sit in darkening front room holding glasses of wine.
We look at each other. The street light clicks on illuminating an intricate spider's web in the garden. I stare at it. It's marvellous. We drink. We talk about nothing. Neighbours New shoes. My eczema, which is just starting to creep up my back. It's familiar itch a welcome distraction. Suddenly. He bursts out. "What have we done to deserve this?" A crass remark that he regrets instantly. We start, again, to reexamine our behaviour and parenting methods. Where did we go wrong? Was it anybody's fault? We each criticise the other. As ever, retrospect alters our memories of events. Each has their own take on happenings. I complain about his absences, he complains about my casual attitude. We have vastly different personalities. We disagree about a lot of things. But hey, is that so unusual? Pause. However. Surely Son has to assume some responsibility. His choice to be so monumentally stupid. Daughter seems alright, has worked hard and got to University. She has had struggles and problems but didn't pick up a needle. What's the difference? Who knows? How did we not see it coming? Could we have stopped it? I have a headache. Too many recriminations on both sides. Suddenly, upstairs, a door opens. Footsteps. We freeze. Bathroom door opens and closes. Silence. Toilet flushes. Bedroom door opens and closes. Silence. This will be the pattern over the next few days. The detox begins... , Back home to a house of tension.
Son holed up in his room, husband by turns, morose, angry, bewildered and sad. I think of Daughter. She is at university staying in a house whch to my endless worry seems to have undergone few safety checks. I long to speak to her but wonder whether I should burden her with our problems. She and Brother are not close, her concern would be for the pressure on us, I'm sure. Evening creeps on, gloom descends, we eat toast. Sod it. I'll ring. One of her housemates answers, she shouts for Daughter. I can hear music, voices, normality. "Hi ma. You ok?" "Fine, thanks. You?" We chat about nothing much. Then as she's about to go I blurt it out. No easy way to say it, but... I try to make light of it, say he's not too bad, he's going to detox and all will be well. I get the impression she was aware that he took a lot of drugs. But injecting heroin was rather a shock. We talk about the why's and wherefores. I talk about our liberal attitude, which I have been questioning. They'd both been allowed friends in the house and in their rooms. They weren't policed as long as they treated us and the house with respect. Too much drunkenness and noise wasn't acceptable, but most of the time everybody was fairly civilised. To be perfectly honest I might have had some suspicions but as long as everyone seemed alright I filed them away. Fool. I reasoned both Son and Daughter were intelligent and well aware of the dangers of the misuse of drugs. Fool We discussed the nature/nurture question. Also the difference between the two of them and their different personalities. I am suddenly weary. We say our goodbyes, promise to keep her updated and return to the gloom. When she's gone I realise that we'd hardly mentioned what was going on in her life. Guilt. That conversation was the start of many which revolved solely round him and heroin... We talk and talk and talk.
We go round and round and round. We say - how did it start? He says - I don't know. I started smoking and drinking. Then i tried weed then ecstasy, cocaine and finally heroin. We say - why? He says - I don't know. Many reasons, peer pressure, low self esteem, lack of confidence, anxiety, depression. Text book stuff. Does he want to stop? Of course. Then we will help him through detox. He works in the family business so a week off can be arranged. He needs money to buy methodone on the street. His drug detritus, needles etc need to be disposed of at the C.D.T. (Community Drug Team) I elect to return these. I need to get away from that bedroom and misery. The day is still beautiful, I breathe in lovely fresh air, everything looks normal. I walk through the town in my linen dress, silver bangles clinking, whilst carrying a bag of used needles. Needles whose contents had promised much but delivered only misery. I felt strangely lighthearted. I thought we can beat this. He's had a dabble. He can detox. He can stop. How wrong I was... Right. Okay. So it begins.
I catch him in the act, the image remains in my head as clearly today as it was then. I walk out, go downstairs, tell Husband. Husband races upstairs, shouts, storms out to work. I sit in the quiet house, the sun streams in through the windows. My toast is untouched on the table. What now? Minutes pass. Eventually I go upstairs, knock on the door. He's on the bed, head in hands. He cries and talks and talks and cries. Husband returns. Son says "I can stop. I just need methodone, I can go cold turkey, I've done it before. I'll be clean in a week." I didn't know then how many times I would hear those words over the next 20 odd years... |
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