Teen Substance Abuse

Sometimes, we at the Band know that part of owning who you are is admitting it  to the world. It's one reason why we at The Band work tirelessly to  break down stigmas and find the ties that connect us all, the ties that remind us that we are none of us alone.

Please join us in standing tall and proud as we tell the world who we are.

What are you, The Band, The Face Of?

I am fairly open, I am aware that the only way people are going to understand various things is to have people speak out about them to be the face of them.

I am fine being the face of things; I proudly wear my labels as an ACOA, rape/incest survivor, special needs parent, non-traditional student, and self-injurer. But, I have spent years hiding, pretty well denying, a label that I should be wearing. It's a label that gives me butterflies as I sit here getting ready to type it.

Addict.

I am, in no uncertain terms, an addict. Yet, when asked what I am the face of or talking about me and my past I never use that term. In fact, I often comment on how my family has history (a strong history of) addiction, I just fail to mention I am part of that history.

But, I can't hide it any longer. And I am not even sure why I hide it; I mean I know why, I am scared of what people will think and say. But, why? I am not ashamed or worried about anything else in my past, though a lot of the dumb things I chose to do occurred or were a result of not being sober.

I spent much of my youth from about 14-15 using pain medication and alcohol. I mean pain medication was easy to get because I was an active kid who was prone to injury. I often went to the doc for an injury and they would write me a script. While I took them "as prescribed" I would take them too long when I actually no longer needed them.

I would find a way to get different medication so I could "alternate" and maintain the high longer. I would toss in alcohol when I could because my parents were open about alcohol, that it wasn't taboo. My parents didn't know about a lot of the drinking that occurred nor the extent to which it happened.

It made me numb, I made dumb decisions on it. I hurt myself and others, but I still doubt that many people of my youth realize what I was doing. After all most addicts are good at manipulating the situation.

Yet, still this label has been one I denied and disowned which in the long run did as much harm to me and my psyche as if I had denied my own left arm. Because this label, being an addict, is as much a part of me as my left arm.

What baffles me is when a friend slips or enters recovery I am the first to be there.  Never saying a word about my issues, I offer to go to meetings and have a "safe space" at my home. All the while biting my tongue and not finding the camaraderie I could have, should have.

So, what brought me to the point of revealing this layer? Well, I slipped and fell HARD this week. We have been having lots of struggles, mostly financial, and this isn't an excuse just a telling of the events. I ran out of coping skills, ultimately that is what happened, I ran out of fucking coping skills.

I started popping again, finding a way to take the pain medication every hour. Never letting my feet touch the ground, so to speak, for about a week. I would pull into work and start calculating when I could leave and get home to take another pill. I would take a pill and immediately look at the clock and figure out when I could take another. This whole time rationalizing that I was "taking it as prescribed." Technically I wasn't taking any more pills than what the bottle said, never mind I wasn't in pain.

I finally told hubby two nights ago that I snuck a pill in yesterday morning, then he made them disappear (honestly, I wasn't here so I have no idea about the disappearance--other than I asked him to get them someplace I don't know of) and bought me pomegranate juice, which I love. I still have been holding close to my secret.

Ultimately I chose to peel open this layer because I can no longer be silent, because the silence is killing me. It's allowing my illness to fester and then allows it to be fed. And I know that's not okay. I need a support network more now then ever, one that I know "in person" doesn't exist but one that I know I have here "online" and far away.

I know many of my friends will recoil, wondering how it could be. I don't know how or why, I just know it is. I just know I can't go on denying such a huge part of me. I need to find the fellowship, I need to be able to reach out when I am falling down that black hole. I need help figuring out what this means for me, my life, and how this slip is going to color my world from now on.

My Sophomore year of high school has not been going the way I wanted.

This year, I've lost all my best friends, had rumors circulating about me while my ex-boyfriend made a fool out of me.

First of all, I admit that I've made to many mistakes - I don't know what to do anymore. My mistakes continue to haunt me - I just want to get rid of them for good.

Let's see, where to start... One of my best friends, we'll call her Abby lost her virginity (basically a one night stand) at the end of Freshman year to this kid that she liked. I don't think he, one of my ex-boyfriend's best friends, gave a damn about her.

During that summer, one stupid night I hooked up with the kid "Abby" lost her virginity to. I never had the courage to tell her because I knew she'd have been mad. I wish I hadn't, but kept it from her for so long. 

I did tell another friend what had happened - she's always been two-faced, but I thought she'd changed. Guess not. She told Abby that we'd hooked up and Abby was beyond mad at me. It was awful, and Abby still hasn't forgiven me - she thinks we'd had sex - but we DIDN'T! It makes me wonder why people believe rumors without understanding that most aren't true.

Later, during Sophomore year, I started having problems with my ex-boyfriend Ryan, who I hadn't talked to since we'd broken up in August. Ryan and I hung out one night and started talking about everything - we each wanted different things. We ended up having sex that night.

I feel like I sound like such a whore, but I'm in love with him - I'd do anything to get him. My mom found out what had happened and told him to never talk to me again, as she knew that he made me more and more depressed. She hated how sad I was when he wasn't around.

During the school year, I was finally done with Ryan's shit. He drives by my house all the time with his sexy car pumping his music. Being stupid, I went on Twitter and tweeted "get over yourself #realtiycheck." 

Eventually, he found out that my tweet was about him and he kept tweeting at me, calling a sloot, slut, whore and everything else you could think of.  I blocked him. I didn't wanna see his shit anymore and I didn't want him to see mine.

Am I wrong for blocking him on Twitter?

He made it such a big deal about me blocking him - when he found out, he tweeted, "oh nooo, she blocked me #coughcough#sloot"

Real mature. He'd have to have gone on my Twitter profile to see that I'd blocked him - maybe he was creeping on me and noticed that I'd blocked him. I don't know. I  felt like that was a little too far.

I know Twitter can cause a lot of shit, but one night, the hashtag trending was #letsmakeitawkward, so everyone tweeted about awkward relationships or breakups. That night, my best friend texted me, asking, "can I tweet: #letsmakeitawkward Taylor and Ryan." I told her, sure, go for it - that'd be hilarious!

Well, Ryan apparently didn't think that was funny. Half an hour later, he tweeted "#letsmakeitawkward Taylor and the whole high school"

That hurt me so much that it's not even funny. Ryan doesn't know who I've hooked up with or know what's going on in my life. I cried until three AM on a school night - my mom made me go to school the next day.

It felt awful and so, so low.

While I'd been less depressed, I became depressed again. That was the last fight I'd had with Ryan, except the time I drunk-texted him, flipping my shit. He didn't say anything but "fuck you," which he blamed on a girl texting me from his phone.

Last weekend was the worst weekend yet, and I feel so stupid.

Saturday night I was at my friend Jill's house with Hannah and Krista. Now, my parents don't like Jill or Krista because they think they are bad kids and do things that I use to do (even though I still do them).

That night, Jill was taking some shots, but I was didn't do any. Later, her friend Austin - who's also a Sophomore - came to pick us up. We all got in and started driving around. Austin, being stupid, was pulled over for going 70 in a 30 MPH road. When the police officer asked for his license and he said he didn't have one.

I freaked out.

I'd had no idea he didn't have his license. That night, Austin got arrested for steeling his MOM'S BOYFRIEND'S CAR! So fucking stupid - driving without a license WITH alcohol in the car. Everyone had to blow into a breathalyzer - I was the only one who didn't blow over 0.0000 because I hadn't had anything to drink.

Unfortunately, that means that I have to go to court for being in the car with an unlicensed driver. My mom has told me I can't hang out with my best friend Hannah since she got arrested - which, UNFAIR. Totally not my fault. Taking away my best friend is like taking away the only thing that makes me happy right now.

I'm telling you - my Sophomore year cannot get any worse.

(thanks for listening, The Band. Much love to you all!)

I was eleven wishing for heaven

I sat miserably with scissors

Praying desperately for a heavenly visitor

I wanted to kill myself

I was living in a secret hell

I wouldn’t dare tell

I wouldn’t dare scream and yell

No signs, no trail

I hid it well

I felt I had failed

My mind felt jailed

Would the pain end with a farewell?

No one was aware

So, of course, no one cared

I never felt safe enough to share

My daily nightmare

Talking about it brought me shame

I took it upon myself to reclaim

My fear-filled brain

I was petrified, terrified and I glorified fear

This was every day of the year

Only shedding tears behind closed doors

Begging and pleading “Please, God, NO MORE!”

I was hurting at my deepest core

The judgment and names, hate and drama-filled games

They were all the same

I was wanting to be different

It was going to take commitment

Being filled with resentment

Created my limitations and restrictions

I desired and admired

And rarely aspired

I was sick and tired of not feeling required

And not being able to acquire

My truest desires

Changing my convictions

Releasing being a mouthy vixen and victim

Stop hoping and wishing

Start a new mission

Shed my old image

Embrace a new vision

Choose to feel accepted

No more feeling neglected

I’m changing my perception

No exceptions

Releasing the anger, jealousy, greed and envy

Is not always easy or pleasing

But I am releasing to relieve and receive

I am stopping the "poor me" mentality

To begin to accept love and peace as my new reality

Is this a possibility?

I had forgotten to love me, you and the land

I had no real goals or plans

Just a beer and a nice tan

It was my selfish superficial stance

Voiding myself of any real chance

To dream and expand

I had forgotten how to dance enjoy and love

I had forgotten to rejoice in the power above

I had my things and my drugs

The rest was all unimportant details I swept under the rug

I was unaware I could dream

Living only by a means

I wasn’t me or who I wanted to be

I numbed my being and every feeling

I was very deceiving.

Compassion, passion and action

I have been lacking

Fear and loathing have led me slacking

I have been passive

I have fed off of reaction

My life I would have captioned

In the past as slow moving and taxing.

There’s glory here for me

I’m choosing a new story

It’s the end of the poor me mentality

As I say yes to pure ecstasy

By looking for the light in me.

I’m no longer the girl crying on the floor

Begging and pleading no more

I’ve risen to my knees but not to beg or plead

To breath, see and believe that there is a Christ in me

I’m still here releasing my fears

Drinking less beer

Trying to figure out how to be sincere

I’m still switching gears

My pain is less severe

Some of the hurt I’ve let disappear

Letting the good in me reappear

By holding myself accountable and looking in the mirror.

I’m living more expressively, creatively, freely and aggressively

I’m allowing myself to enjoy and love me

It’s slowly and progressively becoming more easy to be me freely.

Reputation no longer my motivation

I’m looking for salvation

To some of my old ways I have already said salutations

I am looking for inspiration

That leads to feelings of validation.

I feel better these days

Now that I’ve cleared some of the haze

Feeling less dazed

My eyes have been covered with a new golden glaze.

I’m letting love light my pathways

My new life has been in motion

No more sugar-coating

No more swaying and coaxing

I have started devoting

No more moping, hoping, and doting

It’s time for focusing.

I will find that which strengthens me

Enlightens me and heightens me

Release that which frightens me

Accept and shed light on what brightens me

Unleash the fight in me

It’s my God given right, you see.

Infinite love and gratitude is my new attitude

Less intoxication

More meditation, realizations, and appreciation.

My openness and willingness

Has led me to much bigger bits of happiness

I am blessed

I am seeking my best

I’ll trust God will handle the rest.

I was 11 wishing for heaven

17 years and a lot of tears

A lot of anxiety and so many fears

But with the help of love, words, family and a few peers

I am now 28

Releasing my anger and hate

Trading in my past for a clean slate

Realizing my fate is in my hands to create.

"Rock on--gold dust woman

Take your silver spoon,

And dig your grave"

I remember the first time I used cocaine.

I was fifteen years old and hanging out with two of my closest friends - *Sarah and Sandy. We'd just smoked some weed and they'd gone off to the bathroom while I listened to music.

I didn't think anything of it - maybe they'd had something to discuss. We were, as usual, in a house full of friends, so needing privacy wasn't unusual.

I was a needy, emotional fifteen-year old who longed to be needed - I lived to be part of something. They accepted me, they loved me, so being included in their weekly sleepovers was enough for me.

Sandy emerged from bathroom a few minutes later and asked me to join her. We filed back into the bathroom.

Sandy said, "We were talking it, trying to decide if we should include you. We decided we wouldn't want to share this with anyone but you. If you don't want to, that's fine, but we thought we'd offer."

The decision was up to me, but I knew that whatever it was, if I did it, I was in. They wanted me to be their third, a best friend! Sarah laid some stuff out on the bathroom counter, then moved.

It was a bag of coke, and a straw.

I don't think I hesitated.

I thought "Well, hell, coke seems to be a high class drug of choice. Whitney Houston does it." (Which, in hindsight, is RIDICULOUS).

I replied, "Sure, I'll try it. I mean, you guys'll look out for me, right?" They said they would, so Sarah cut lines for us. Up the nose they went.

I was hooked.

I'd never felt anything like it. It was like the feelings - inadequacy, loneliness, shyness and fear - they disappeared with that first punch in the brain. My mind felt itchy, then rocketed.

I was a new person. I lit up. Sarah and Sandy hugged me as we re-joined the party.

I was different. I was outgoing. I was sexy. I was alluring. I got hit on all night - it was FANTASTIC. Sarah and Sandy seemed so PROUD of me: I belonged. We ended the night by streaking down Sarah's road at 4:30 AM. Glorious.

We did coke again, first thing the next morning. I felt more awake and productive than ever.

At first, I only used cocaine with them - a few times a month. Whenever we partied without cocaine, I wondered, "When do we get more? How do we get more?" When we did get more, it was gone too soon.

Then, I got my heart broken by the guy I'd given my virginity to. I wanted something, anything, to mask the hurt. Sarah gave me cocaine - my own eighth of a gram. I stretched it out for a week and half. Then it was gone and I had to feel again. Sarah and Sandy didn't want me to use coke to fix things, and since they were the only people I knew who did coke, and they'd stopped, I quit.

My junior year rolled around and they relaxed once I got into another serious relationship. We got together with our boyfriends one weekend and sat around getting drunk, stoned, and tweaked out of our minds.

Then Sandy dropped out.

Then Sarah dropped out and stopped using.

Again.

Eight or nine months went by - I didn't touch coke. I thought about it. I wished for it. But Sarah and Sandy had gone their own ways so I rarely saw them. Suddenly, I was the head of our group of friends.

I started senior year, promising myself that I'd stay away from coke. I knew I enjoyed it too much - I didn't want to become an addict.

My fiance got caught cheating on me the same day I found out I was pregnant. He dumped me via text message.

I miscarried that night.

I called up my friend Ann, who'd been into cocaine before. To my delight, she was using coke again and was more than happy to help me out - she knew my heart was broken.

She supplied me with small doses during school. After school, we'd go to her house and spend hours getting stoned and sneaking into her bathroom to do lines. I knew she had sex with the dealers for free coke, but I didn't care.

By October, not only was I having gallbladder issues, I was a full-blown addict. I didn't abuse it, I didn't have addictive tendencies, I was an Addict.

Don't believe me? Let me tell you how a normal day would work for me:

"Wake up in the morning

See your sunrise - loves - to go down"

I'd wake at 6:30 for school and do a line of coke to help me wake up. I'd get ready, put on giant sunglasses to hide my eyes from my mom and she'd drop me off at school.

Every other morning, I worked at a church day care for my child development class. I'd be sure to do extra lines those mornings so I wouldn't have to sneak to the bathroom while watching the kids.

On the days I didn't work at the daycare, I'd go to the bathroom halfway through first period for a line. Every two hours, I'd be back in the bathroom. My teachers knew I had gallbladder issues, I never had to ask permission - I could get up and go, which made using during school a hell of a lot easier.

I'd leave school between 1:30 and 2 and go to Ann's house for coke. Slowly, that stopped. She'd bring me my coke and I'd go straight home to be alone, use and not worry about anyone for hours. By the beginning of October, I resented having to share my coke.

Ann and I dated awhile. We took a trip to Virginia with my mom, finding clever ways to get jacked up without my mom noticing. We shoplifted...a lot.

December rolled around. I'd missed too much school; I wasn't going to graduate. Oddly, in spite of my drug abuse, I was still a good student. My grades suffered because of my health issues.

I'd have gallbladder attacks in the middle of the night, so I'd spend the night in the ER, where I'd get a shot of painkiller and go home. When I didn't sleep the following day away, I dragged myself to school and tried. But I was exhausted - I'd fall asleep in class the days I didn't use. Soon, I started picking classes to sleep through.

I knew I was going to drop out of school.

Christmas break began. I spent the first night celebrating with Ann doing an inordinate amount of coke Two, maybe three, eight balls? I don't remember. She talked me into snorting meth, but I puked and told her to keep it - I'd rather have coke.

That night's a blur. We kept using - eventually, I remember saying "I don't feel right" and...nothing.

Three minutes later, I came to, Ann's sister was doing CPR on me. My heart had stopped - I was dead for a full three minutes.

I sobered up and thought "Ann'll probably call an ambulance; I should sit up and let her know I'm okay."

I turned my head and there was Ann, on the bed...doing more blow. I felt like I'd been punched. We broke up that night, I stormed out and went home.

We haven't spoken since.

I told my mom that I wasn't going to be graduating. She agreed that high school wasn't a good idea. If I wasn't going to graduate, I wanted out. When school resumed, I dropped out.

I spent the next few months getting clean and sober. I applied to the Gateway to College program, was accepted, and started in the fall of 2007. I began dating my girlfriend, Amber.

Things were pretty fucking great.

Within weeks of starting the program, I met another contact and was using again. But I maintained an A/B honor roll, notoriously hard to achieve. I had perfect attendance.

In November of 2007, Amber was in a car accident and died at the scene. I was supposed to be with her that day, but had overslept after a four-day long coke binge. My boyfriend, a mutual friend, called with the news.

I don't remember that day.

I was shattered. When I'd woken up, she was signed onto AIM, and two hours later, I learned she was gone. Forever. I broke. My dad said I was screaming, loud, wordless screams. My mom called it "keening."

I don't remember.

After her death, I was sick for days. I missed her funeral. I couldn't keep anything down so I couldn't use and numb myself. My perfect attendance was shot.

I got back to school and immediately threw myself into two things: drugs and school. If my drug use had been frequent, it had become obsessive. Every twenty minutes, I hiked off to the bathroom for bigger and bigger lines. Anything to not feel. Anything to function.

I finished the semester with a 2.5 GPA and one hell of an addiction. Over Christmas break, I met my (sexually abusive and now ex-) boyfriend. I told him flat-out that I used coke and didn't intend to stop. He still asked me out.

I told him, hanging out at his apartment, that I intended to use. He had a choice - I'd do it in front of him or go to the bathroom. He let me do it in front of him. During spring break, we took a vacation, and I got him to try coke. I used hardcore until my contact and I had a falling out. So I quit coke. I puked and cried and shook. It was terrible.

I graduated Gateway in August of 2008, with nearly a 3.0 GPA.

In September of 2008, my ex dumped me and kicked me out. I was homeless and heartbroken.

I started using again. From September to December, I used every day - every fifteen minutes. I slept in my parent's car, then on the floor at my grandmother's house. I weighed maybe 100 pounds - I never ate. I was self-destructing.

On Christmas Day of 2008, my friend and I had just done some coke. An absolute certainty hit me: if I didn't stop - stop right now, tonight - I would die.

It wasn't "You MIGHT die, or you might go to jail, or you might get sick or robbed or stabbed." No.

It was You Will Die.

I went back to my grandmother's house, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried. I was terrified.

I quit cocaine.

For good.

So far it's been "for good." December 25, 2011 marked three years of sobriety. I still say it's the best Christmas present I've ever gotten. (Coming in a CLOSE second is my fiance, who helps me through it all)

I still call myself an addict. I still identify myself as an addict. I am a RECOVERING addict, but an addict all the same. If I ever, for a second, start believing that I am no longer an addict,  I know that I will relapse...and I will die.

So I soldier on, I fight the cravings, and I talk about it. I talk about it a lot. I admit that I am an addict. I came clean to my mother in 2010. Since then, it's been public knowledge.

It's time to make it more public.

My name is Ali.

I was once the Gold Dust Woman Stevie Nicks sang about. I am a recovering addict.

But I am recovering.

"Did she make you cry?

Make you break down?

Shatter your illusions of love?

Is it over now? Do you know how?

Pick up the pieces and go home?"

I have a lot of kids: two sons, two stepsons, and two step-daughters. My stepchildren are as much a part of my heart as my bio kids are. Their father and I have been together for over eight years; we have joint custody, and I am the primary caretaker at our house. Their mom and her husband refer to me a "co-parent."  We tell everyone that our kids have four equal parents.

I used to get along with my husband's ex very well. My husband hates her and she hates him, so I was the go-between for a long time. We were never "friends" but we were more than cordial.

Until recently.

Things have gone downhill, the mind games are more than I can handle, so my husband has had to take a bigger role co-parenting with her. They have four kids together; they really need work together. It's not going well.

That's just a little background.

This story is about my oldest stepson, who is sixteen. He's smart, he's funny, he loves cars, he's a great big brother. He was bullied terribly in middle school, but that's over now. His grades have been slipping, his are teachers complaining that he's falling asleep in class.

And... the thing I worried most about: he's on drugs. It was hard to write that. My son, who I love dearly, is on drugs.

Personal items and money have gone missing - a lot, from everyone. Everyone is a target. I don't know what to do.

A few months ago, he had some issues with his mom. He told his mother that he wanted to live with us full-time, rather than live with her. She was furious, but she'd told him he could choose where to live (not a choice I'd offer).

After he moved in, we got a report card - his grades had plummeted. His report card showed mostly F's and a D for good measure. I was floored - we had no idea school wasn't going well. She knew, but didn't tell us.

We talked to teachers, got assignments made up, talked to him about his life and how even at sixteen, not doing well in school can screw up his life. We grounded him. Got him after-school help. The teachers are reporting improvements in his grades. I'm proud of him.

Then... the teachers began reporting other things. He's sleeping in class. He's combative. He's nasty.

I'm shocked: he's none of these things at home. He has a great story for each call we get. This teacher is out to get him. That teacher is mad at him for not joining his team. And so on.

I wanted so badly to believe him. I'm so mad at myself for believing him.

When he was bullied, my husband and I spent hours at his school, trying to help him. The administrators sucked - they let the bullying take place, they didn't help. He tried different things to look cool.

Each time he tried, it backfired.

He brought a knife to school and was caught because all his "friends" were not his actual friends. He was arrested. I understood where he was coming from; I had his back. His mother was about to kill him - I stood in front of him and told her I knew what he did was wrong, but if I were the victim of bullies, and no one helped, I'd have done the same thing.

My husband and I did everything to make the bullying stop. His mother, in turn, saw his fat lips and black eyes and asked what he'd done to piss the kid off. She never, ever had his back.

I think her behavior has a lot to do with the way we got here. If parents don't take care of their kids, the kids become bitter, bitter people.

My stepson is one of those people: at sixteen, he's bitter. He's rude, he's apathetic. I didn't see the transformation - he's a good actor. At our house, he's behaved, which worked until last week. When I found out he was getting high before school, I didn't have his back - I flipped the freak out.

All of the missing money, all of our missing personal items flashed through my mind.

He's a thief and he's on drugs.

When he's high, he becomes a jerk. I'm furious, and I don't want to deal with it. Saying that makes me feel like a terrible bad parent. I don't want to deal with it, but I will.

We got a call from school - he'd been sleeping all day and they couldn't wake him up. One of his "friends" informed the teacher that he'd taken some Xanax.

I told my husband to take him directly to the ER for a drug test. He promised me over the phone, to his dad's face, to his mom, to the doctor, to the nurses, that he hadn't taken any drugs.

He tested positive for drugs and he STILL insisted that he hadn't taken drugs.

What the hell? How can you lie in the face of such evidence? 

I've never been so close to hitting one of my kids as I was that day. I wanted to punch him in his smug, lying, rude face.

The next day at school, he was told he would be getting a full locker search. In the school office, he finally admitted he'd taken a Xanax, but swore it's was the only time he'd ever done it. It didn't add up.

Then, they checked his phone.

On his way to school, he'd sent a bunch of texts warning his friends to seriously not to bring any drugs to school that day. He - and a few others - were expelled.

Now he will be enrolled in a high school where many of his former bullies attend. I thought he was done with all of that. I'm scared; sad for him. I'm also so damn angry.

He did this to himself, and I'm so, so mad at him.

I told my husband that our son needs help. His mother and father have to do this because I'm not technically his "parent," which means that I have no say. His options are: treatment or living back with his Mom. I'm not allowing this behavior in my house with our other kids believing it's okay.

Not going to happen.

Last week, he was taken to an outpatient rehab where he met with a very nice therapist. He thinks the drug use is experimental, but he drug-tested him anyway. The therapist did say that he has problems to be worked out. My stepson still says that it was a one-time deal - he only took Xanax once. His mom thinks we're crazy to have him go there. This happened on a Thursday before he left to spend the weekend with his mother.

He had to leave his phone with us, so I went through it. When I did, I found a lot of texts between he and his friends. Texts about smoking weed with his friends, drinking, taking pills.

After that, I went to his Facebook profile and checked his inbox. It was even worse. The messages went all the way back to November (he'd moved in with us in February). His mom had been smug, after all, once he'd moved in with us, he started doing drugs. She was wrong.

So wrong.

While he's at his Mom's, she lets him go out with his friends, have his girlfriend over, have the boy who he smokes pot with most often stay the weekend. He got high at school, got expelled this week, and she's letting him run wild. No worries, no care about what he could be doing.

He wrote on Facebook that he's drunk - told his friend he got the booze from his Mom. Lovely. So, in other words, her son putting himself in danger while breaking the law is just fine with her. It's not fine with me.

Of course he didn't want to come back to our house. Why would he? We have rules.

My husband allowed him to stay with his Mom. I flipped out. He doesn't want to upset the boy, in the hopes that he'll come home. He's letting a 16-year-old on drugs call the shots.

It's wreaking havoc on my house - it's affecting my marriage, too. I don't know what to do. I know I keep saying it, but I really don't know what to do.

I'm scared, The Band. I'm scared that this story will end with this child of my heart in the grave or in prison.

I just don't know what to do.