If I were a runner and this was a marathon, then I believe the phrase one would use to explain my current state would be…she’s hit the wall.

     My research indicates that if a runner hits the wall, it’s usually somewhere between mile 21 and 23.  This is great news because if the wall doesn’t appear until 80% into the ordeal, then perhaps we’re 80% through this nightmare. 

     Continuing with the research, I discover that said situation can be remedied by brief rest and the ingestion of food or drinks. (Funny, I’ve been ingesting a surfeit of food all week, yet I still find myself in this slump.)  So I am forced into the cerebral place that seems to always snap me back into my stronger, tough-loving, disciplinarian self…summer memories.


     In June, M’s doctor told us he was an addict, but I quickly reminded the doctor, “He’s only 16; isn’t this what everyone says teenagers do?”  
     Even as the words came out of my mouth I knew how pathetic I sounded, especially since there at my feet sat the smelly, brown paper bag.  The bag was filled with empty liquor bottles, lighters, chewing tobacco, cigarettes, and a few other repulsive items I found, quite easily by the way, and brought to show the doctor.


     My son who at only 15 and 3/4, was addicted to alcohol.  This is a heavy burden that I am not quite ready to fully digest.  Right now, all I can do is extract him from the toxic environment that made his path so fast, so dangerous, and so sad.  


Good.  I’m back.