He woke up this morning, finally, but he can’t remember much of the night before. He can’t remember the shouting match with his mother, telling her to “F” off and that he’ll do drugs as long as he wants too. Or the fight with his girl friend that ended with him passing out on the couch.

His name is Christopher, he’s my seventeen-year-old son, and he’s a drug addict.  No, he’s not the kind of addict depicted in the movies or on television. He doesn’t sleep in alleys and creep around trying to find his next “fix.”  He’s not disheveled or unwashed, though the clothes kids wear today kind of express that.  No, he’s a middleclass kid from the suburbs that got off the road somewhere and can’t find his way back.

Ecstasy, “E,” “smackers,” “fizz.” It doesn’t matter what you call it, he takes it and he can’t, and won’t stop. His mother and I sit for hours trying to figure out where we went wrong, and you know, we’ve come to a conclusion that may not set well with others: we haven’t done anything wrong.

We put him through school and made him study, but the drugs took over and he quit going to school.

We taught him the difference between right and wrong, but the drugs took over and the difference to him became muddled and cloudy.

We taught him that it’s not the money or the fame, but hard work and diligence that equal success, but the drugs took over, and he no longer even wants to look for a job or accept work from anyone.

We taught him respect for others, but the drugs took over, now his hair-trigger temper kicks in and he lashes out at everyone with such anger, and distain that we fear he’ll hurt someone one night in a drug-induced stupor.

Finally, we taught him love, and not by merely saying it to him. We expressed it to him every day by example and by our actions with him. But again, the drugs take over and he yells at me in the front yard that he hates me and wishes I were dead.

No, we did everything we could to ensure that he became a good man and a positive contributor to society… but the drugs took over. We can no longer control him because his defiance is to such a point that he won’t obey anyone.

Now we’re trapped between our love for him and the knowledge that if we do nothing, he’ll eventually hit bottom, or worse.

So, there you have it. Where do we go from here? I don’t know, but we’re not going to sit still. Would an intervention work? I don’t know, but we’re going to try it. Would a stint in re-hab work? I don’t know, but if it comes down to it, we’ll try it.

I won’t be writing my articles or working on any literary projects until this crisis with Christopher is over. I’ll miss it, but not as much as I would miss my son if he were to die, and I didn’t commit everything I had to preventing that.