The way in which I first
became aware that my barely 14-year old son was using drugs wasn't dramatic,
like some tales I've heard from other parents. There was no call from the
police, no big reveal of a stash hidden in his bedroom. I didn't walk in on him
and his middle school friends passing around a bong. Instead, it happened
one night while I was cleaning the kitchen at 9pm, after a long day spent at
work, an evening spent overseeing all three of my kids' homework assignments,
and after his two younger siblings were safely tucked into bed for the night. H came into our small kitchen and stood, watching me scrape dishes into the
trashcan. I looked up and noticed that he appeared stricken, panicked. I asked
him what was wrong.
"Mom, I have to tell you
something," he started, choking back a sob. "I did something really,
really bad, and you're going to be really mad at me."
Despite how upset he looked,
and what he'd said, I wasn't immediately alarmed. H had a life-long habit
of "outing" himself over minor transgressions for which he felt
inordinate amounts of guilt. As a preschooler, he would frequently come confess
in tears after accidentally tearing a page in a book or doing something
similarly inconsequential. In elementary school, he would write me long notes
apologizing for having made a poor grade on a spelling quiz or for talking in
class that day. I had always tried to reassure him that he didn't need to carry
around such a burden of misplaced guilt and remorse, but the habit still hadn't
completely disappeared as he headed into adolescence. I also wasn't that
worried because although his grades at the parochial school he had attended
since first grade had slipped precipitously over the past year, he remained a
polite, generally well-behaved, friendly kid with plenty of nice friends and a
strong connection to his family. Given all of this, how bad could what he had
to tell me really be? Still, I stopped what I was doing and asked him what it
was, assuring him that I was certain it wasn't something about which I would be
angry.
Looking back, I realize that
the words that next came out of his mouth marked the watershed moment in my
life as a parent, and in our family's life. There was life before the words
were uttered, and then there has been life since that time. But I had no idea
that this was the case, as I casually leaned against the kitchen counter,
listening as well as I could, given how tired I was at the end of a long
day.
"Mom,
I smoked pot."
I stared at him, not
understanding clearly what he'd just said.
"What? What do you
mean?"
He burst into tears and
repeated himself. "I smoked pot. I only tried it twice and I didn't really
like it. But I did it and I know it was wrong and I know you're going to be
really, really mad at me. I'm so sorry." Tears were streaming down his
face as we stood facing each other.
My heart began racing and I
felt like I was going to pass out. A million thoughts collided in my brain at
the same instant. How could this be true? When and where could this have
happened? Where would my well-supervised child have gotten marijuana? How was he old enough to smoke
anything, much less pot? After all, this was a kid who still liked playing
legos and climbing trees in the backyard with his 8 year old little brother.
What was I going to do?
I tried to stay calm as I
suggested to him that we go sit on the front porch of our small house to continue the conversation. We settled side by side on the
stone front steps, with my still-weeping son leaning into my shoulder. I tried
to ask him for details, but he wouldn't give me any, saying that he didn't want
to get any other kids in trouble. However, he continued to swear over and over
that it had been an isolated mistake, a terrible error in judgment for which he
felt huge remorse. He promised me repeatedly that he would never touch the
stuff - or any other drug - ever again.
Instead of feeling angry or
upset with H, I found myself feeling empathetic and sorry for him, as he
continued sobbing and offering up his repeated mea culpa. Surely, I thought to myself, no
kid who obviously feels THIS bad about experimenting with marijuana a time or
two can be in real trouble. And how about the way he had actually come to me to
me on his own to tell me about it? As I desperately grasped at something,
anything to make myself feel less terrified by what he'd just told me, I found
myself naively reassured by the fact that he had come to me to volunteer the
information. Certainly this had to mean something, right? It meant that his
remorse was genuine, and that I was a good enough parent, a parent with whom he wanted to
communicate honestly about this important topic. It meant that he didn't have a "problem" or even the beginnings of a problem. This was just an isolated mistake, right?
Right?
I put my arms around him and assured him that it
would be okay. I thanked him for coming to me and telling me the truth. I
explained that we all make mistakes, and that he was very wise to realize what
a big mistake this had been. He solemnly vowed one final time that he would
never, ever smoke pot again. I told him we would talk more about it the next day, after I'd conferred with his father.
And as we both walked away from the conversation that night, I believed him. I
totally, completely believed him. In fact, I actually felt
reassured by what I perceived to be his forthrightness and I felt like I'd handled it pretty well. I mentally patted myself on the back for
being so close to my son. In fact, however, I had just taken the first step
down a road of actively enabling what would become the next four years of my
beautiful, brilliant, beloved firstborn child's ongoing efforts to kill himself via drug abuse, one day at a time. This would be just the first of many, many times over the coming years when my own denial and willingness to believe what I wanted to believe instead of what was right in front of my face allowed my child to continue to slip away.
But that night, when I went to bed, after kissing him goodnight in the top bunk in the toy-strewn bedroom he shared with his little brother, I had no idea what had just happened, or what it meant for him, for me or for our family.
NOTE: Four years later, with my child fighting for his life in the hospital after a drug related brain injury, what would I have done differently after that first admission that he was smoking pot? In the most general sense, I would have taken it a hell of a lot more seriously. I would have assumed that any time
a 14 year old is experimenting with drugs, we are looking at a potentially serious
problem that needs proactive, immediate and ongoing intervention. I am not saying
that every 14 year old smoking pot is a drug addict or will become a
drug addict, but NO 14 year old needs to be using drugs. Period. And if a kid that age is using at all, in any amount, there needs to be some
serious information gathering beyond just what the kid is willing to
tell you. Trust, but verify, verify, verify. Err on the side of over-caution. Consider starting family therapy with your child, enroll him in a good drug education program, and definitely up the level of your adult supervision. Even if you are already watching your child and his friends pretty closely, start watching him MORE closely. Don't assume that you know the whole story because you probably don't. That's my opinion now. Others may disagree.- Katie
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