If this were a Greek tragedy.
We would bind his hands and feet. Strip him naked. Drag him through the dust. We would offer sacrifices to those indifferent gods. We would plead with them. We would beg his hero Dionysus to release him from the lure of heroin. But no. We have to be civilised. We have to talk. We have to be sympathetic. We have to try to understand. He can’t understand it himself. What chance have we got? It’s a sickness the experts say. He can’t help it. Like all addictions it comes from existential despair. It comes from boredom. It comes from low self esteem. The list is dizzying, endless, impossible. It sits amongst us like a huge black shadow. He abandons the carefully planned programme. He disappears for 3 days. We are frantic. A small part of me doesn’t want him to return. I would like my normal dull life back. Suddenly it seems very seductive. Some days out. Coffee with friends. Being able to concentrate on a book. Watching TV with Husband. Walking with Husband. Looking forward to Daughter’s visits. The CDT ring. I apologise. They’re used to this happening. They offer no advice. What could they say? They say his case will remain open. There is birdsong in the morning now. It comes through my open window. Sweet and strong. The light is changing. The earth is turning. Life goes on. We pretend to be normal. Husband goes to work. I chat to neighbours. Nobody misses him. We live in the bubble of pretence. It’s all theatre. We really are on the edge of our seats. We fill the silence with dire imaginings. We wind each other up. Sometimes we laugh and immediately feel guilty. We are in a very strange place. We clean his room. We clean the house. I delve into my soul. I feel detached. I look at the garden coming to life. I look at the smiling sky. The door opens. He walks in. He smiles at me. My heart breaks. “Alright?” He looks strangely well. Bastard. “Where have you been?” “I want to start again.” Just like that. No explanations. No apologies “You can’t just pick up the reins.” “I can do it myself.” Oh no. “But You can’t.” “I can.” “I don’t want any more.” This is a euphemism for my money’s run out. “I’m determined this time.” “You were last time.” “I really mean it this time.” “You did last time.” “Oh well, if you’re going to be like that...” “I’ve heard it all before. You always mean it.” “What’s different this time?” “It’s complicated.” I turn on my heel. I open the door. I turn to look at him. “It’s always fucking complicated.” I leave the room...
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The mornings are a little lighter.
The detox programme begins. I am nervous. Husband and Son are positive. Too positive. The first week all goes to plan. We take him to Asda every day for his Methodone. He takes all his tablets as prescribed. We hold them. Drug addicts will sell anything. I hope and fear in equal measures. He is suffering. Not massively, the medication is there to mitigate that. In theory the Methodone satisfies the heroin cravings. The tablets have a sedative effect. These help with the anxiety of withdrawal. He has sleeping pills also. He has an appointment with a councillor next week. All bases covered. Again. In theory. So. A week passes. After the initial miseries, his mood improves. We have conversations. He can rule the world. He will run a marathon. Husband encourages him. I am more circumspect. One step at a time. Daughter phones. She’s heard it all before. “But he’s on a supervised programme this time.” I whine. “Surely he’ll do as the doctor says.” I sound more confident than I feel. “Hmm.” She says. She’s in another slightly dodgy flat in London. It’s quite pleasant in a stylishly haphazard sort of way. The area has a hum of danger. She says they can hear gunshots at night. Oh shit. So. One child at home fighting heroin addiction. One far away living with other dangers. Was this the plan? When we sat in our semi detached, watching Chorlton and the Wheelies. I have faith in Daughter’s abilities to handle her life and her problems. She doesn’t really confide too much. She always seems so self sufficient. Sometimes I feel I’m looking at them both through glass. Not sure about anything. Son tells us too much. Daughter tells us too little. That’s the way it is. I don’t want her on the periphery. Difficult. Anyway. A few more days pass. Then. He walks into the dining room. It’s a bright day. I look at him. A batsqueak of suspicion. Cancel that. Quick. I look again. Convince myself I’m mistaken. My mouth is dry. He looks away. Looks back. He’s okay. He’s not. He goes into the kitchen. Husband in another room. “I’m suspicious.” He looks at me. He goes into the kitchen. I hear him speak to Son. Murmuring. Voices raised. Accusations. Son stamps upstairs. “What do you think?” I say. “I think he’s had something.” He replies. The words clatter round my skull My legs turn to jelly. We look at each other. Heroin is a fearsome adversary. It lurks on the edges of your lives then pounces. It clings to Son like Philip Pullman’s Daemons. It’s never far away. We hear footsteps on the stairs. Door slams. Usual stuff. Run away. Another sleepless night. He returns in the morning. He comes into the dining room. Sullen. Haggard. “I can’t do it.” “You can’t do it?” “You. cant. bloody. do. it? Well. That’s that then. He can’t do it. Good stuff... I wake up filled with anxiety
It’s the appointment day. Will he go? He always intends but doesn’t always fulfill. But. He showers and dresses and we set forth. We walk down the street. Greet the neighbours We look like a normal family going into town. In the gardens crocus are pushing their pointy heads through the earth. Yellow, purple, lilac. They struggle up through their swordlike leaves. A watery sun sneaks through grey clouds. We don’t say much. We enter CDT. A little more prepared for it’s grimness. We meet with Tracey again. She is his designated worker we are told. She opens his file, asks about his week. Asks what substances he’s taken since she last saw us. He tells her. It’s a lot of stuff. She completes the form in her round, childish handwriting. Then. “The doctor will see you now.” Like he’s doing us a favour. Don’t forget to touch your forelock. We are ushered into the usual anonymous grey room. Is it numbered 101? The doctor is smooth skinned and handsome. He gleams in this miserable place. We shake hands. We sit. He turns to Son. “Tell me about yourself.” It pours out. He charts his progress from soft drugs to hard drugs. He talks about his failings. He talks about his personality. He talks about his fears and anxieties. He tells of the effects of the drugs. How they gave him confidence and removed his worries. How, as time went on he needed more and more to just be normal. How he is desperate to stop. How he can stop but can’t stay stopped. He is articulate and lucid. I start to speak. Doctor silences me. Husband glares at me. Doctor types copious notes. Talks at us all. Then he turns to Son. “You need to stop taking drugs.” “If you don’t stop, you’ll kill yourself.” Well. Get away. “We will put you on a programme.” The aim is to give him decreasing doses of Methadone. (Heroin substitute. Controversial.) Also tranquillisers and sleeping tablets to help as he goes through withdrawal. A daily dose of Methodone will be administered to him at the local chemist. Just a little ritual humiliation to get him started. To be fair, drug addicts are not to be trusted. Many who are prescribed Methodone sell it to buy heroin. I know. It makes no sense. But I’m not a drug addict. The tablets will also be given in small batches. We can supervise this. The doctor prints off reams of prescriptions. Times and dates. “Which chemist?” “Asda.” He suggests therapy. Gives us a number. He suggests yoga. Gives us a number. He suggests meetings for addicts in recovery. Gives us a number. He’s officious now. The caring mask has slipped. I dare to speak. “What if he can’t stop?” “He has no choice.” He dismisses me. I am intimidated. Doctor hands Son sheafs of prescriptions. Says he’ll see him in three weeks. Wishes him luck. He’s already thinking of something else. We leave. We stand outside. “You must try.” More pressure. “Shall we go for a coffee?” “I’m going home.” We know this is a euphemism for I’m going for some solace before the detox starts. Husband and I look at each other. We are battered. It’s hard to hear your child reveal his troubles to a third party. Our daughter keeps most of her problems to herself. It’s not her style. And at the moment she considers we have worry overload. I appreciate this consideration. However, I don’t want to think there is no room in our hearts for whatever struggles she may have. Anyway. We know we won’t see him for the rest of the day. We decide to go out for tea. We’ll try to put it behind us for tonight. Ha. Fat chance... in the gloom of January.
He screws his courage to the sticking point. Rings CDT. (Community Drugs Team) The first available appointment is in 2 weeks. He begs for an earlier one. Not possible. He despairs. Inevitably, that evening he disappears. There is only one consolation. Heroin. Bar tying him up we can’t stop him. He is still working. Still earning money. We are still covering for him. We still dip into the bottomless pit of lies and half-truths. We don’t care whether people believe us or not. The day of the appointment arrives. He asks us to go with him. We all set forth. Appropriately, rain slants down from a glowering sky. There are snowdrops like stars in the gardens. CDT is on the edge of town near the railway station. It is housed in a beautiful old factory building. The machines long since silent. An air of gloom pervades. Ratting cans and polystyrene containers litter the street. Decrepit old pubs and disused cafes complete the picture. Their signs fading and rattling. In the doorway to CDT there is a huddle of gaunt addicts. They are smoking, peering from beneath their ubiquitous hoodies. They are crafty wraiths. We walk past them and step inside. We enter into an unlovely room. We announce ourselves to an indifferent receptionist. We are waved to grey metal chairs to await the arrival of “Tracey.” There are more addicts in groups inside. They stare at us and mutter. There are haggard women with neglected looking children. There are badly tattooed, unwashed men and boys. Here and there are cleaner, better dressed specimens. Standing alone. Uncomfortable. Not part of the tribe. They’re like us. They think they’re different. They’re not. Eventually Tracey appears. She ushers us into another unloved grey room. A grey metal desk. Grey metal chairs. Paint peels off the walls. The rain lashes on the windows. We sit. “I’m Tracey.” She has short red hair, chewed nails, a nice smile. You wouldn’t mess with her as they say round here. She picks up a pen. Opens a file. Begins. Son has many personas. He switches to charming and vulnerable. He’s been led astray. Feels inadequate. Low self esteem Peer pressure. Reiterates the intention to stop. He has tried to stop many times. He really means it now. He knows now he can’t do it without help. He can’t do it alone. He needs some medication. We say the problem is not necessarily stopping. He can do that. It’s staying stopped. She stares at us. Returns her gaze to Son. “If you carry on you’ll kill yourself.” Get away. “You’re ruining your life and your family’s” Get away. “You have to want to do it for yourself.” Get away. “Only you can do it.” Blah. Blah. Blah. He promises. Switches on that tremulous smile. She believes him. So do we. I think. She can’t prescribe anything, he has to see the doctor. The doctor will put him on a programme. He will prescribe medication and therapy. Unfortunately, the appointment is 7 days away. 7 days? What does he do between now and then? Son is sweating now. The mask is slipping. “Can you not give me anything to see me through the week?” “Sorry.” “All I can suggest is to try your GP.” “Sometimes they’ll prescribe something.” He’ll have to wait a week to see the GP. And. They don’t have much sympathy for heroin addicts. He’s taken the decision to come to CDT. He’s waited for this appointment. Now he has to wait again. “I’m sorry.” she repeats. She can’t do anything without the doctor’s say so. He has to wait. She hands us the appointment card. We shake hands. We leave. Son is gutted. I suggest we call at the GP’s on the way home. He stares at me. He is visibly agitated. He puts his hood up. Turns on his heel. Darts off into the rain... Before I start the saga of our efforts to seek help,
I think Husband deserves a mention. He has been a shadowy figure in the drama so far. Centre stage, as always, the addict. Off to the side, sibling, moving in and out of the picture. Anyway. Two people. We met. We liked, we laughed, we drank, we partied, we loved. We married. I wore a knickerbocker suit. (It was 1971) My troubled friend wore flowered pants. We went to London. Then on to Paris. We walked the streets. Saw the Mona Lisa up close. You could approach her with ease then. Such a small picture. I was a wife. He was a husband. We returned to semi-detached suburbia. And it began. Marriage. He spent long periods travelling with his job. I worked, had lots of friends. Then, kids came. I quit my job. I was marooned. We had little money. The honeymoon was over. He went abroad, stayed in fancy hotels. I stayed home, watched Play School, changed nappies. I felt neglected. He worried about money. He worried about his job. We loved each other. We hated each other. The kids grew. We moved. I was closer to my Mum. Things improved. The relationship shifted and changed. We moved away from each other. We became close. All the time the kids are changing, developing, manipulating. The family is a melting pot of emotions. We’re all competing for each other’s attention. We’re happy. We’re sad. We argue. We laugh. Normal dysfunctional family. I rely on Husband a lot. I’m a bit neurotic and fanciful. He’s strong and dependable. He’s also funny and clever. He’s volatile and awkward. We can both be vicious. We both adore our kids. Would die for them. But it’s not easy. We have different parenting methods. Good cop. Bad cop. The kids know exactly how to play us. Somehow we all manage to survive the craziness. We all change, adapt to each other. Move together. Move apart. Nobody ever knows another person completely. We all have a great capacity for self delusion. We all have secrets which we hold in our hearts forever. Husband and I try our best. Not true, we never really try our best. I fret about everything. I fret about our parenting skills. I fret about our haphazard lifestyle. We make rules. Don’t enforce them. Don’t agree on the rules. I look back over the kids’ youth. I wonder. How much blame do we take? Daughter did well despite the dysfunction. Son floundered. Is it genes? Environment? Chance? A combination of all three? Depends how the die falls. Husband and I have inched closer. Through heartaches and moments of pure joy. We are kinder to each other now. We have survived by some miracle. Life goes on... Its Christmas again.
A year has passed in the twinkling of an eye. In retrospect my emotions/thoughts/memories are a little hard to quantify. Not a great deal has changed. But it has. Let me reflect on the year. Out of the gloom the bright green buds of spring appear. Cherry blossom in all its frothy loveliness. Snowdrops, daffodils, tulips, bluebells. Hope and optimism flourish. Spring is followed by idle, dawdling summer. All is green and lush. Daughter graduates. We attend the ceremony. Bursting with pride. Snuffling into our hankies. We watch her, fuchsia coloured hair peeping from under her mortar board. Massive achievement. She still looks like a child. She moves to London. Further away. Literally and metaphorically. Meanwhile Son battles on with his problems. He sinks. He rises. Seems to improve. Looks well. Tries hard. Then. Like the brush of a bird’s wing. Suspicion. We wait then accuse. He denies. He refuses all offers of help. He can always do it himself. He knows best. He works in the family company. He is intelligent and funny. People in the office and in the factory like and respect him. The boss’s son label doesn’t seem to be a disadvantage. Husband is a clever and well respected businessman. We asked ourselves constantly if this put too much pressure on him. And whether our expectations were too high. Son resolutely remained at managerial level and seemed content with his role. He worked hard. I was proud of him. He was always unflashy and self deprecating. But. The dark days would overwhelm him. He had to plead sickness. We became very adept at inventing illnesses. He had many imagined appointments. I repeat. All offers of help were flatly refused. He went to the doctor’s with all manner of complaints. Never the real problem. Or the cause of the real problem. And which was which? He would go to imaginary places at night. Creeping back secretively. Not quite himself. He always denied everything. We learned the signs in years to come. Now. It was all instinct. And suspicion. No proof. What could we do? He was a grown man. We couldn’t ground him now. We had miserable days. We had hopeful days. We always thought it would stop. How long can you hope? Maybe forever. Autumn strides in in green and gold splendour. Stillness and sadness in the air. Tantrums of leaves all about. Too obvious to quote Keats here. Daren’t place him beside my amateur scribbling. The days shorten. Nothing changes. We live a lie. He says we don’t understand. We say “help us to understand.” This is my boy. This is my son. He is crying. I’m supposed to make it right. I feel like Sisyphus pushing that bloody rock. Up and down. Up and down. Outside the air is sharp. The sky is white and hard. We start getting weird phone calls. His old friends disappear. His behaviour becomes more and more erratic. We become more and more stressed. We lie to everybody. We all have a great capacity for self delusion. I sense he has taken another step down to the Underworld. He wants to stop but it isn’t enough. He has to be able to. So. Another Christmas. We still hope. But we are becoming increasingly desperate. We decide to seek help... |
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