May 27th is a hard day for me. It’s the day my first husband, the father of my children, died of a heart attack on our living room floor back in 1992. This story isn’t really about him, though, it’s about our son. Their stories are tightly connected.
Courtesy of Marie Ford
We fell in love back in high school and tied the knot while we were still pretty young.
We stayed together for 23 years until he passed. Over time, I saw how much pain he carried. He was adopted, and his life was full of secrets, loss, and mental illness on both sides of his family. In our late twenties, it became clear how much he was struggling. He started going through extreme highs and lows — spending recklessly, cheating, lashing out, and sinking into deep sadness.
Courtesy of Marie Ford
He was working in law enforcement, but afraid to ask for help. In 1983, he had a breakdown and lost his job. We moved back home, and I worked full time to support our family. It was hard. He was often angry and distant. Our daughter pushed back, but our son held everything inside.
Courtesy of Marie Ford
On May 27, 1992, our son, just 16, was home alone when his father collapsed. He called 911 and did CPR until help arrived, but they couldn’t save him. We all cried that week, but my son never really grieved. He hasn’t been back to the cemetery since the headstone was placed.
Courtesy of Marie Ford
After high school, he moved out at 18, got a full-time job, a car, and enrolled in college. He valued his independence and never wanted to feel like he was a burden to anyone. In time, he met the love of his life and followed her to New York. They married and were building a life together when 9/11 happened. Though unharmed, they lost friends and saw things no one should. He was later diagnosed with PTSD.
Courtesy of Marie Ford
He worked hard and earned his degree. Life seemed good. But in 2011, everything changed. His wife was hit by a speeding bicyclist and suffered serious brain injuries. I offered to stay and help them out for six weeks. My son was terrified and unsure if she would recover. That year was filled with nonstop doctor appointments and a kind of heartache I never expected. He began therapy and was diagnosed with depression, PTSD, and bipolar disorder.
Courtesy of Marie Ford
In 2013, things worsened. He changed jobs, started feeling overwhelmed, and eventually turned to cocaine. Soon he was addicted, lost his job, and later, his marriage. He became homeless. I brought him home, hoping to help. But over time, it became too much. He was using drugs again, staying out all night, and eventually, selling them. I faced the most painful decision I’ve ever had to make, I told him he had to go.
Courtesy of Marie Ford
Now, I just hope he’s safe. I watch for his posts online to know he’s still alive. I still cry for him. I love him deeply, but I can’t live in his chaos anymore. If someone you love is struggling with addiction, please remember, you’re not alone in this. I understand your pain and I carry it too.
