I feel as though I should be wearing a big "E" on my chest just as Hester Prynne, wore in The Scarlet Letter. Let the world know that I'm the one who let my son become an addict. I'm the one who loved him so much that he stayed in his vomitous lifestyle. Now, due to a mother's love, he's in prison. I know this is just a lie, but that's how it feels.
I also know that I did what I best knew how to do and whether I chose to do "A" or "B" in my life, chances are Cliff's life would be no different than it is today. Addiction does not show partiality. It loves the rich and the poor, the brainiacs and the ignorant all the same. In the world of addiction, at least from my exposure and perspective, race is a non-issue for users and dealers alike. If you have the money, they've got the stuff and you can drop and use right where you are.
Nevertheless, as I grow in my understanding of this epidemic and my knowledge of setting boundaries for myself, I continously feel that fingers are pointing at me.
True or my own neurosis?