Meth Mom

Chapter 11

In Meth Mom

By Meth Mom
Sept. 27, 2017 at 11:18 a.m.
Updated Sept. 27, 2017 at 11:18 a.m.


I don't think I've ever felt more alone.  My prayers sound hollow and repetitious.  Tears flow down my face with each thought of the mess of my so-called life.  Total lack of control.  Has anyone else been where I am?

One of the two things I feared most has happened.  My son is in jail, and most likely going to prison. And perhaps for a long time.  I prefer jail to the cemetery, but it still hurts.  Have you sat on the seat looking through the glass, talking on the phone to a loved one, seeing them but unable to touch? It's not fun.  The first visit he was beginning to sober up, not talking much, kind of disinterested.  By the 3rd visit, he was sober, realizing what was happening, frantic for news of his child.  

Parents on meth can still love their children.  My son deeply loves his child.  The meth addiction is just so strong.  He always thought he was a good father.  He thought he could do both, use and parent.  The law says otherwise.

I always knew this day could come.  Or worse, death to an overdose or a drug deal gone badly.  I have been resigned to that.  

What I never expected was for CPS to take the baby.  He has become a commodity of the state.  It doesn't matter that I want him, and he wants to be with me.  Or that I have been providing him a home most of his life.   It doesn't matter that I meet all the requirements of the law to keep him.  The all knowing, all powerful, CPS worker set the time and date to take possession of this precious child and I have to give him up.  He doesn't know her, he will be terrified when she puts him in her car, takes him to a place he doesn't know with people he's never met. My family is all he knows. He is loved and nurtured here, this is his home.  Why, why must he pay for the actions of his parents?  

I know I'm rambling, trying to sort out my feelings.  My memory jumps from the haunted look on my son's face when I told him CPS had stepped in, to hearing his sobs when I told him I couldn't keep him.  It's not cool, I'm told, for men to cry in jail.   But his heart was breaking for his baby, knowing he was to blame.  

Now I wait for the doorbell to ring, knowing my little man will be gone.  My God, my God!  Where are you?

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