My constant need to stalk my child was not due to codependency as some may refer to it, it was pure fear. There was and still is at times a film that rolls on in my head playing the same horror movie over and over of my son’s death.
My obsession, unlike his didn’t require me to snort him through my nose or shoot him between my toes. Believe me if I thought it would have saved him, I would have. Instead, I got my fix of him by my stalking his every move.
My actions, I believed were justified by convincing myself that he was my maternal obligation, and it was my duty to keep him alive. Giving birth to him I believed gave me the right to meddle into all of his affairs.
Most of my day were spent ringing his phone over and over and some nights, if he wouldn’t answer, I resorted to driving through dark and dreary neighborhoods looking for my fix of him. It was physically and emotionally exhausting not to mention dangerous and yet I still continued the chase.
One day I found my maternal obligation (Timothy) on his couch detoxing. He was laying there in a fetal position clenching his stomach begging me for help. I quietly thanked God he was breathing.
“Mom please, I am in so much pain.” he said.
His pleas were painful and yet comforting to me at the same time. At that moment and every moment, he called me for help, there I was willing to help him get sober. There I was hand over hand pulling him in by the umbilical cord we were attached to. It was exactly what my soul longed for to feed my addiction of needing to feel loved and needed by him, it was rewarding to take care of him.
In a panic I asked him
“How can I help you? Should we go to the emergency room?”
He sat up rocking back and forth and spoke
“No emergency room please. I can get suboxone from my friend.”
His “friend,” was the neighborhood drug dealer. Tim arranged to meet him a few blocks away from his apartment. Within minutes his “friend” pulled up in a new white Mercedes Benz. It was sad to watch my pain-stricken son crawl from my car to retrieve a $20.00 pill that would subside his symptom.
The exchange was long enough for me to lock eyes with the man robbing me of my son. I hoped he knew from my mom death stare that I wanted to slowly bleed him out of his soul as he was doing to us.
My son’s strength was that of a small child. He was so weak that he couldn’t even break the pill he held in his hands. Finally, he popped half of the medication in his mouth and saved the other half for later. His cries where like music to my ears “thank you mommy, thank you mommy.” It was my misconception that those cries meant that he would go into treatment.
For the moment we were safe, having quenched our addictions which would give us enough time to figure out how we would get our next dose.
For me this gave me a little window of opportunity to find him a drug treatment center. I knew that for him to go into treatment that all of the stars had to line up. My fear was that he would change his mind and try and convenience me that “I can detox by myself and go to Alcoholics Anonymous.” I knew that would never happen.
After a few days the stars lined up. This particular time we drove hours to what would be his residence for 45 days. Once he was settled into a treatment program of my choice, I felt an overwhelming feeling of accomplishment. It was euphoric.
However, my state of euphoria would last as long as the shot of heroin my son would administer to himself once he fled from treatment which was the next morning. I felt as if I had gotten a shot of “Naloxone.” It was sobering.
My behavior was pure madness and yet I hadn’t noticed. I was too busy blaming my son for fucking up my life. There I was hiding my addiction as he did from family and friends. I was afraid of being judged so I hid in corners, closets and bathrooms ringing his phone over and over until he answered. There were times when I needed my fix so badly that I would have no problem jumping on a flight, renting a car and casing areas he frequented to find him.
I needed to know that he was alive. The only thing that would sooth my craving for him was to hear his raspy voice or to get a glimpse of his red pocked up face.
Our addictions were taking a toll on us causing our bodied and minds to slowly deteriorated. It was hard for me to stay focused at work as my thoughts were consumed with worry. I gained weight from cortisol from stress, and he lost weight from using drugs and not eating. His teeth cracked from smoking dope and mine from clenching and grinding. My bags were from crying and his from lack of sleep. He vomited, and I had diarrhea.
As his addiction heightened so did mine. I secretly called myself “The Mother Stalker.” I have been called worse, especially from family and friends that accused me of enabling him. I didn’t care.
It took a Minuit, but I did finally realize that I was just as sick as my son. It was after a long day of non-stop trying to find Tim in a snowstorm that I realized the insanity of my actions. I equated my failing to find him and save him to me failing as his parent. long story short I contemplated jumping off of the Verrazzano bridge. My spouse talked me down.
I knew at that point that I need help and I needed it fast. I promised myself from that day on that addiction may have my son, but it's not getting me anymore.
I ran to my first Alanon meeting and never looked back.
Today, I understand that the only person that can fuck up my life is me. We all have choices.
