Heroin.

Just read my post from April where I mentioned that at least my son wasn't using heroin.

Cursed myself I guess.

Turns out he was smoking it since February if not earlier. About 5 weeks ago he called me at work, very upset. Said he needed to get help. "Yeah, yeah. You always say that," I grumbled to him while people swirled around me asking for more turkey. Man, these people can really put away the turkey. More pleading. From the son, not the employees for once. "Help me mom." I could hear a sincere sense of panic in his voice. Well, maybe this is finally a bit of good news! Hurrah! I had always heard that until they want help they won't change so this is it, the magic moment, the street paved with gold, the rainbow at the end of a violent thunderstorm, the half-off sale at Freddies! (aka Fred Segal.)

I ran home from work to find him pale and upset. I held him tightly, told him it was going to be ok and he would get the help he needed. We just hung onto each other and had a very rare pleasant rest of the day and night, watching movies (my go-to for all things that ail you).

He said he couldn't stand the thought of going to another residential treatment center, and certainly not back to UCLA, so we decided to pursue the intensive outpatient therapy which is what he was supposed to do after the rehab. (Didn't quite work out. Read older posts to enlighten yourself about the post-rehab drama.) Anyhow, feeling optimistic! Found a place in West Hollywood that would take him for the 4 month program -- every single night I would need to leave work early and drive him there for the first month -- then it tapered down from there. I was willing to do it because I am a great mom who really tries to look at the glass half full: while he's in the outpatient therapy I can sit at the Coffee Bean next-door and work on my lastest script. All good! He asked for help so he would get it, even if I had to take a second or third job. (God, I love this economy. That was said in a very sarcastic tone of voice by the way.)

Well, the next day he sent me a link to a website for a medication called Suboxone. I had no idea what that was. Hmmm..... He even called me at work to ask if I had gotten the email. No, I told him, I was busy washing dishes (don't ask) and hadn't found the time to make it to my office to check email but would do that soon. He made me promise to call him as soon as I read his email.

So, Suboxone is the current version of Methadone which is what they give heroin addicts to help them through the withdrawal and detox of one of the most addictive drugs known to mankind. Well. I guess he's trying to tell me something. (Insert sarcastic voice of my mother: "You think?") Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath. Heroin? And here I thought it was "just" pot, xanax (which the kids snort apparently. really?), ectasy, hash, acid, cocaine and well, everything else but black tar heroin.

Again, I ran home. (Yes, the employers have been very understanding.) Yes. It's heroin. But, good news! He hasn't "yet" gone to the needle "just" smoking it. But his "friend" Damian, the one that introduced Max to drugs, who Max always blames for everything (not ready to take responsibility yet) is "SHOOTING UP EVERY DAY." This is also the kid that threatened to kill me (or beat me up, can't remember because it was in a text message that I quickly read on Max's cell when he was in the shower) when his mom called me to ask for advice on rehabs since Damian needed to go to one since he just got arrested and it would help his case if he sought help. Thank GOD Max is not hanging out with him anymore.

Ok there is still time to save my kid! He's not hanging out with Damian; he hasn't gone to the needle yet! Off to the latest doctor to get a prescription for Subxone. Ok, that was handled. Now off to see the IOP. Good, found it, the meeting went well. So well, that while in the meeting we get a call from a very FAMOUS COMEDIAN that the kid loves and that I wrote to earlier in the day once I found out he doesn't drink or do drugs (and has dated some super hot chicks, made movies and has a mansion in the Hollywood Hills and is still very edgy and cool and popular with the college crowd -- someone my son can actually look up to in Hollywood, wow.). He is giving us tickets to his show and wants to meet my son. Wow! Faith in humanity has been restored.

Ok, go to comedy show. Meet another famous dude who is now sober (amazingly so) with a 3-D movie coming out the next night. (Ok, it was Steve-O.) He and son bond, take photo. The other famous comedian (ok, it was Dane Cook) shows up in the VIP room where we were whisked to by the owner of this comedy club on Sunset (ok it was Jamie Masada), and stops by and says hello. Kid is so happy. Comedian couldn't be nicer (and quite hot if I do say so. [Note to self: need boyfriend SOON. One date every 12 months is not healthy. Or right.] Dane Cook does his set, comes back and spends more time with us. All is good! Dane even said I was a cool mom. Did I mention how great he is? Life is great! Another photo op. Kid is going to be a-ok.

Insert sound of super fast car slamming on the BRAKES......SCREEEEECH.

Not. So. Fast.

Max "declined" to go to the outpatient therapy a few days after the visit. Not sure what happened but he came up with a "better" plan. Just find a bunch of doctors and do it that way. Can't say I'm not disappointed but at least he's still asking for help.

So there's a therapist, a psychiatrist, a pain management/anesthesiologist that prescribes the Suboxone, and Al-Anon (and blogging) for me. So we're on the right track. However, he's still angry and hostile and miserable but at least he's not hanging out with any of his "old" friends and he's getting off the heroin.

Insert dramatically depressing music here. Insert dark rain. Wet streets.

Every frickin' Sunday I have to do laundry ... at the laundry mat (again, don't ask) and come home today to find a bike on the front porch. Front door locked. Sneak around to the back door which is open. Quietly walk through the house.

Max hears me not so stealthly approaching his room, the door is open. He jumps up out of his chair and physically tries to block me from entering his room. When DAMIAN jumps off the bed and says, so coolly, "hi, how are you? Not sure if I am supposed to be here but thought I'd just drop by."

Cool as a cucumber. My kid is clearly upset, keeps saying "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." I leave, take the puppy on a very long walk in a much nicer neighborhood (hearing the voices of the other Al-Anon parents chanting 'disengage, disengage, disengage') but come home to a peaceful, yet empty house. No note. No text. No email. No call. Feel guilty because he's not here and I'm enjoying the peace. But know that this turn of events is, mostly likely, not a good thing.

He just called. He's at Damien's house now. I asked for Damian's mother's phone number. He said he'd text it to me. That was an hour ago. Nothing. But at least he let me know where he was. Right?

I am sure this story is to be continued. One way or another.