To my son entering a traveling trade: You can do it right if you know what you’re doing when you start.
If you never try it, you never get addicted.
I was only 13 when I learned the dance, son. And if you learn it right, you can dance anywhere.
Make friends with your work crew. Be buddies. Socialize with them, make yourself trusted. Care for them. Find company in the people you work with. Then, when the moment comes, that someone offers you something you shouldn’t take: Be honest, and kind.
Tell them, gently, about your bio dad and your genetic susceptibility to crippling addiction, and that you don’t want to end up the same: Make it about your weakness, not theirs.
Reassure them that you’re ‘cool’, that you aren’t interested in ‘narc’ing out on them, or judging them for their own life choices. That you just prefer not to try it. So that you can’t die from it. That’s all. Be unbothered by those who use it.
(I mean METH, son. It will get offered to you someday in your new line of work. Or any other drug. But meth is the demon you’re most likely to find on the path you walk).
And, what I learned worked for me was: offering to always be the sober watcher. The guy who’s not methed out, that can talk to the cops politely and normally if they get called. The guy without a parole officer or warrants to worry about. The guy who watches all the guys so they don’t steal from each other. The guy who calls 911 if someone is dying, but hides the other guys who don’t want to be seen by emergency forces when they arrive. The guy who will talk to the emergency forces confidently, calmly, and soberly, to assure them all is well except whatever one dude needs some help.
But…don’t ever tolerate guns.
A gun comes out, a gun is displayed, a gun is even talked about— you just nod and smile, and walk the hell away from that situation like it’s on fire.
Call mom. Call the Amazon delivery guy. Call the 1-800 number on the nearest billboard. Call anyone.
Walk into a ditch. Walk into streets in a strange town you don’t know in the dark. Sleep in a dumpster until someone calls you back or the sun comes up.
Doesn’t matter. Just leave the situation, even if everyone seems calm and happy.
GET OUT.
It never stays calm and happy for long when drugs and guns come together.
That’s all. I just wanted to put it in writing. As a mom who lived worse roads than you are walking, and somehow not only survived, but thrived. Thrived well enough, to make you.
You can make a great careeer from this job. So long as you don’t let it eat you.
Love - Mom.
The beginning
The end.
