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