My son overdosed on heroin (and survived)

<p>It&rsquo;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. &ldquo;Hello, goodnight, I&rsquo;m going to play a quick game of Madden,&rdquo; he says. &ldquo;I need to unwind.&rdquo;</p> <p>I say I can&rsquo;t sleep either. &ldquo;Sorry, hon,&rdquo; 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>