 |
| | © IStockPhoto.com / Frédéric De Bailliencourt | |
Shielding my eyes behind dark sunglasses, I tried to blink back tears as I pushed my cart through my local Wal-Mart. Everything I saw — basketballs, toy cars, skateboards, juice boxes — reminded me of my son. Each object, so full of memories, threatened to send me tumbling into that black hole of depression I knew all too well.
I had struggled against it ever since my son became addicted to methamphetamine and began
pushing family away. Tommy* was always smart, funny, full of life. But he never could stay away from trouble. My husband and I tried everything — from taking away his allowance to taking off his bedroom door. Nothing worked for long, and over time Tommy’s behavior became frightening as the drugs messed with his brain. Eventually, we told him
he had to get clean or get out. After that, we still took him in countless times, gave him food, opportunities to make money, chances to start over. But the drugs always won.
Now, to protect our family, I have a security camera and a criminal trespass warning against my own son. Hospital bills, phone calls, and arrest records are how I know what is happening in his life. Sometimes I want to shake people — even complete strangers — and shout, “Don’t you see what’s happening? I’m losing my son! Don’t you care?” But life always goes on.
Lost in these thoughts, I was standing aimlessly in the main aisle between the toy and houseware departments when I heard someone speaking.
“Can I help you find something?”
I looked up to meet the bright eyes of a young man with a wide grin. He was wearing a blue employee’s apron.
“No,” I stammered, “I’m just thinking right now…”
The kid was tall and lanky, his short, blond hair was neatly gelled, and his clothes were fresh and clean.
So this is what my son would have looked like if he had stayed drug-free.“Are you sure?” the young man persisted.
“No, thanks. I’m OK,” I lied. “I’m just thinking about what I need.”
Walking away from the young man and toward the grocery aisles, I passed by clothing for young men — pullover shirts, jeans, cargo shorts. I could feel my grief pressing down on me, oppressive as the Texas heat outside that air-conditioned store. When I finished getting my groceries, I headed back to housewares to get the canning jars I had failed to pick up on my first pass through. Just as I spotted them, I heard a familiar voice.
“Are you sure you don’t need any help?”
I turned around to see the same young man with his ear-to-ear grin.
He really looks sincere, I thought.
He’s not just doing his job. He really wants to help me.“Oh, I’m OK,” I lied again. “I just… I… ”
* Names have been changed for privacy.
