My son overdosed on heroin (and survived)
<p>It’s 1 a.m. on a Wednesday, and Josh, my husband since we were too young to buy a beer, is just home from a hectic night at the restaurant. He cracks the bedroom door and waves a hand. “Hello, goodnight, I’m going to play a quick game of Madden,” he says. “I need to unwind.”</p>
<p>I say I can’t sleep either. “Sorry, hon,” he says, sealing the space between us with a doorknob tug.</p>
<p>Sprawled on the bed, my back damp with perspiration, I relive the wrong side of a coke binge. Dread. Jitters. Exhaustion. Shame. People in Narcotics Anonymous like to say they are comfortable in their own skin. I know how that feels only in that it is the diametric opposite of what I am, now, and most of the time.</p>
<p>These episodes, tornadoes of varying scale brewing inside my guts, are part of my perpetual penance for past behavior. It was a decade ago that I atoned, served a sentence imparted by a county judge, but the karma police are less merciful. They lock me up, toss me in solitary confinement, keep knocking and demanding more. These internal storms oft serve as a warning. They are coming.</p>
<p><a href="https://chughesbabb-32154.medium.com/my-son-overdosed-on-heroin-and-survived-1b4c44256934">Website</a></p>