One year ago, the term “opiod crisis” was something I had never heard of.
One year ago, I did not know the meaning of words like fentanyl, kratom, benzos or naloxone.
One year ago, I was worried about my son Roger’s mental health and I was aware that he was acting in erratic, secretive ways. When I talked to him about my feelings, he reassured me that he was fine.
One year ago, I wrote a chatty email filled with details about work, life and such, hoping to elicit a response from him.
One year ago, I called and left a message on his cell phone, saying, “Call me. I need to hear from you. I love you.”
One year ago, I sensed in my bones that Roger was not fine. But his silence was deafening and the stone wall between us was painful.
One year ago, I felt guilty, believing that Roger was rejecting me because of something I had done.
One year ago, I felt afraid to contact his girlfriend and share my fears with her.
One year ago, I believed that his silence and distance was my fault.
One year ago, I desperately wanted to believe that Roger was capable, confident and in control. This blinded me to the truth.
One year ago, my son was alive.