Drugs did wonders for my family life

The prodigal crack smoker comes home.

Listening to your mother bragging on the phone about your new blog is a uniquely awkward experience.

Especially when it’s called, Confessions of a Crack Smoker.

I can just imagine friends and relatives on the other end of the line.

“What a fine man your son has turned out to be. We had some doubts whether he’d reach his potential as a total degenerate. But look at him go! Congratulations! You must be so proud.”

Finally, I had to ask: “Are you fucking kidding me? How can you possibly be so happy about being the mother of a drug addict?”

I’ve never pretended that my mom is anything even vaguely resembling normal. But this seemed light years beyond her usual galaxy of weirdness.

“Mom, I’m not a doctor or an astronaut. I’ve only brought you suffering.”

But she was unfazed. I’ve never seen her so flush with pride. Not even that time when I took her as my date to a big newspaper award ceremony. She was resplendent that night. And for weeks afterward, my esteemed older colleagues asked if she was available. One pesky columnist even managed to wrangle her phone number and beseech her for a date.

“Now, that night was peak mother’s pride,” I told her. “That was the night you got a glimpse of a son you could brag about.”

Did she though? I was pretty coked up that night. And properly trashed. I was an intern swanning around that ceremony like I had already won the lifetime achievement award.

Sure, she was proud that night. But proud of who? I was wearing a full costume to the ball — impersonating someone I thought I was supposed to be.

Long after the coke habit turned into something darker, and I had donned a great many masks, I started on the road to recovery. I vacated my career, bid farewell to my own fledgling family and showed up at my mom’s doorstep broke… and broken.

A hero’s homecoming!

And she had the audacity — so perfectly assured — to tell me that she’s never been more proud of me in her whole entire life.