Jeannie Out of the Bottle - Barbara Eden [93]
Fate is so strange, and I often ask myself this question: if Michael and I had lived in another neighborhood, not one where our neighbor was growing pot and handing it out to kids like some kind of candy, would Matthew have avoided becoming a drug addict?
But the reality may well be different. Marijuana can be an extremely addictive drug, and the addiction is intensified if a child not only starts smoking when he is extremely young but also has a marked genetic predisposition to addiction. Sadly, Matthew fell into both categories. Michael and I both had alcoholism in our respective families. Michael’s grandfather was an alcoholic, as were both my mother’s older sister and her brother. Matthew’s early addiction to marijuana easily led to an addiction to harder drugs later on.
Another factor, one for which I will blame myself to my dying day, is that Matthew was only nine when I asked Michael for a divorce, and he never really recovered from having his hitherto happy home broken up. He wanted his mommy and daddy to stay together forever, but I denied him that, and will feel guilty about that for the rest of my life. If I were able to turn back the clock, I would have stayed married to Michael until Matthew was older and able to cope with us splitting. To be fair to myself, the majority of kids from broken homes don’t use drugs, but that still doesn’t console me.
At the time of my divorce from Michael, I never dreamed of the impact our divorce would have on Matthew. As the years flew by, he seemed like a happy little boy, albeit one who slept a little longer than most kids his age, but drugs? Never!
It wasn’t as if Michael and I were neglectful or permissive parents. Quite the reverse. I had always made it my business to check out as much as I could about the children with whom Matthew played, and I made sure to visit their homes to ascertain that everything there was all right and that it was safe for Matthew to visit. Of course, I didn’t know what a marijuana bush looked like.
Looking back, I see that one of the main problems is the manner in which I was raised, which discouraged me from looking into Matthew’s drawers or snooping in his closet. How wrong I was. And if I could live my life again, I would look in Matthew’s drawers and snoop in his closet, simply because it is dangerous not to. After all, I was the parent, I was the responsible adult, and I should have made it my business to check on Matthew at every turn. Instead, I carried on, oblivious.
Despite my short foray into the world of party drugs with Chuck, I was basically ignorant about drugs and addictive behavior. For years, the Doors’ anthem “Light My Fire” had been one of the highlights of my Las Vegas act. It was only after Matthew explained it to me that I realized that the lyrics referred to marijuana.
Neither Michael nor I had recognized the signs of serious drug addiction in Matthew: the weight loss, the sluggishness, the inexplicable bouts of temper, the hours wasted in sleep, the dramatic personality changes. The trouble was that, like many parents, Michael and I were still living partly in the past, warm and secure in our glowing memories of the adorable child who loved both of us and whom we both loved so much. But when it comes to drugs, as we would learn during the harsh years that followed, love just isn’t enough. Neither Michael nor I had the slightest intimation that our beloved Matthew was secretly taking drugs, spending his nights and days in his room doing little else.
The truth only slowly began to dawn on me in 1984. Matthew was nineteen and studying at City College in the San Fernando Valley. Each morning I watched proudly as he set off for college, his books in hand, eager to start a day of studying, or so I fondly imagined.
One day I came into the kitchen to find that he’d left all his schoolbooks on the counter. I grabbed them, got in the car, and raced to City College as fast I could, hoping against hope that