My son is eighteen-months old. When I hold him in my arms, we connect. A boy needs his father in his life. He just does. I love when he brings me a book to read. He puts the book in my hand, then makes his way to my lap. He has a million toys, but
Upon the New Year, I am not one to reflect on the past 365 days. Reflection for me, comes 13 days after. Six years ago, I was at my parents house, on the couch, slamming beers so I could come down off meth. I had $82 in my pocket, but nobody would answer their phone.
I’m still learning my triggers to alcohol and drugs. What exactly it is, that grabs my attention and sets my mind and heart rate into a false reality. Then it prompts me to think, “it was fun” and it would “surely be different,” this time if I use and drink. The trigger or a trigger,
A loud screeching, yet familiar yell woke me up two hours before I was suppose to wake up. “Colt!” she yelled. He jumped the fence at 7am. He’ll come back I thought. But the I heard the bark. Colt has a distinct bark when he has something. So I got out of bed, put on
I had guest post that was really inspiring and heartfelt. It’s from a mother who lost her son to prison because of heroin. Please feel free to share, support and comment on this beautiful letter to heroin. http://keepingitsober.org/2017/01/a-mothers-heart/