THIS LETTER i WROTE TO MY HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES, DISTRICT REP. DOYLE HEFFLEY..HE REPONDING TO IT AND OFFERED LOCAL RESOURCES BUT NOT LEGISLATION.

I have a recurring dream. I’m at the beach with my two children. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is warm and bright, the sounds of children’s laughter echoes off the blue ocean. I reach down and grab my 10 year old daughter’s hand as we reach the waist deep water.

While reaching for my 8 year old son’s hand, a group of boys around his age rushed by, leaving me overwhelmed with panic. I can’t find him amongst the sea of boys jumping up and down all around me. I start screaming his name, pushing children out of the way imagining his little body struggling to come up for air. I know if I can reach him, even if I find him unconscious, there’s still time to bring him back. It’s not too late.

This is the point when I wake up in a cold sweat, still feeling the terror. Interpreting dreams isn’t usually this easy. My children are actually 30 and 28. My son, who I’m desperately trying to save in this dream, is addicted to heroin.

I need to say some things and you need to listen.  I know everything I say right now you either won’t hear me, take it seriously, or care.  But the state of mind you’re in now won’t let you.  But when you beat this addiction I don’t ever want to speak to or about the addict again.  Once you take the necessary steps to get better, it will be in the past.

I looked up at my reflection in the mirror hanging behind the bar. The years have really taken a toll on my face. Today was another one of those days. My face is red and my eyes are swollen. My hair is particularly disheveled from holding my head in the uncontrollable sobbing that only occurs on these particular days. “What was different about today?” I thought to myself. But I knew it wasn’t anything in particular. I am the mom of an addict and my emotions are like the tides. Today the waves were strong and unpredictable.

As i write this the tears flow from my eyes, an everyday occurrence. In a small town there are no secrets. I do appreciate the kind words of people when I’m trying to get through the day at work and they can’t help noticing my puffy eyes from my latest cry. It’s not just the hurt anymore.

A cringe worthy title. But I am being real. To effectively become real I have to go back. Painfully looking at myself and facing my faults. My son didn’t have a dream of becoming who he is today. I take so much responsibility in creating the person I’ve come to resent.

I’m sorry I’ve hurt you with my words. I’ve called you a junkie and a scumbag and I hate that I did. I understand more now, but I still don’t know how to get you back. I don’t want to be part of your life that has you lying and stealing for your next high. I also can’t afford to buy them for you. You can’t go without them and you won’t go to rehab. So I’m lost at this point.