I know that most people nowadays, unfortunately, have had the specter of drug abuse haunt some part of their lives, whether it be from a family member, a friend, or even just a celebrity we all admire. Drug abuse is so widespread that it no longer shocks; however, that was not the case back in 1981.

I met Sam one day when I stopped by the neighborhood grocery store to pick up some milk. As I walked in, greeting Bill, the owner, I noticed a very good looking man standing with him. As I went down the aisle, I couldn't help but turn back to look at him. Our eyes met, and he smiled.

That was Sam. He followed me down the aisle, and as I leaned into the compartment to get the milk, he came up behind me and said, "Hello, Maria." I guess Bill told him my name. He introduced himself. We talked, and I found myself attracted to his quirky sense of humor and his dark good looks. I happily accepted an invitation to dinner.

There's something I should explain. I have never considered myself a "stunner", or even pretty. When I thought about my looks, the word which came to mind was "competent". Construction workers might watch me walk by, but they would never whistle or comment about my appearance. So it was a new experience for me to be swept off my feet, especially by someone as handsome as Sam. He overwhelmed me, and I fell for it. For once, I was the beloved, not the pursuer, and it was a wonderfully new experience.

Dinner that night was followed by long, intimate phone calls, quick lunch meetings, quiet nights at my house. Sam pursued with vigor. When I finally admitted to myself that I was falling in love, I fell hard. And Sam knew it. Soon after our meeting, Sam moved in with me.

Looking back, I can see that as soon as Sam hooked me, there was a subtle but definite change in our relationship. He could stil be charming, but our lovemaking began to happen less and less, and I began to pick up hints here and there that Sam was in charge now, and I was just another object, without opinions and few rights. Stupidly, I thought it was because he loved me too much to share me with anyone...

There were also hints of a darker nature, but I was a lot slower to pick up on those. Sometimes Sam would come home acting very strange, as if his mind was somewhere else. He would plead exhaustion and collapse on the couch. My attempts at conversation were answered with grunts or one syllable words. His head would slowly nod, as if he were falling asleep, then he would jump and shake himself. Sometimes, I would look at his eyes, and they seemed enormous. His words would slur, and he always looked a little pale. Sometimes in the morning I would hear Sam throwing up in the bathroom. He would say that he had sneaked a large midnight snack, it must not have agreed with him. I would kid him about that, never suspecting the real reason...

Sam was supposed to be working odd plumbing or painting jobs here and there with his cousin, but, even though he always seemed to have money, his clothes never looked dirty. And he would always wear long sleeved shirts. In fact, I never saw him without long sleeves. Even when we went to bed, he would have his robe on till the last possible minute. But, dear God, I loved him. There are none so blind...

If only I had talked to Bill before I married Sam...

Yes, Sam asked me to marry him. I accepted with joy. Maybe Sam has problems, I thought, but that's what I'm here for. Together, we will overcome and take on the world! My family was against it. "You've only known him for three months", they said. "Give yourself some more time. If it's meant to be, it will stand the test." But I didn't want to wait, and neither did Sam. We were married a week after he asked, at a "chapel" in Tahoe. "It'll be fun", Sam said. "Why spend all that money on a church wedding? We can get married, see a show, do some gambling. C'mon, don't be a party pooper!" I reluctantly agreed. Dammit, I wanted the big church wedding, the white dress, the whole big, expensive, wonderful mess of a proper wedding. But I said nothing.

The chapel had red velour on the walls. The minister, an old woman with bright red hair, looked drunk or stoned, maybe. Her eyes looked glazed, and she had trouble talking. Even the canned organ music had problems. It kept bogging down, as if the tape were warped. If I were a superstitious person, I would have been extremely uncomfortable with it all. Well, I was anyway. It just didn't feel right. It didn't feel true. This was like a charade, as if we were playing at life. I was embarrassed for us. But this is what I wanted. So, I held up my chin, grinned and bore it, and never told anyone back home how awful it had been.

We met some "friends" of Sam's in Tahoe. I use the word with reservations; they were to put it mildly, scummy people, unwashed, shaky, thin almost to emaciation. Once they found Sam, they were always in the background, watching. And they never would talk to him in front of me. They always drew him aside, as if I was in the way.

Oh, hell yes, warning bells were going off. Like I said, I didn't have any experience at all with drug abusers, but these people looked exactly like what I thought a junkie should look like. I couldn't admit defeat, though. I had put myself on the line defending Sam to everyone who really cared about me. I just couldn't go back and tell them they were right. But the feeling that something was terribly wrong just wouldn't quit.

Well, that was my wedding and honeymoon. Honeymoon? Nothing happened. Sam always dropped into the bed, proclaiming how tired he was. If I left the room, even for a minute, he would be dead asleep when I got back. Some honeymoon.

We went home after only three days. Sam was mad at me; I didn't know how to relax, I was too uptight, from now on we could just stay home.

Things just went downhill after that. Sam continued to come home and, ignoring me, would go into the bedroom and lock the door. When I knocked, he would tell me he was busy, that he would be out in a while. Most of the time, I would come back after a couple of hours, only to get no response. After only two weeks of marriage, I slept on the couch more often than with my husband. Sam would apologize at first for falling asleep with the door locked; after a while, he didn't even bother.

You would think that I would have got it by now. But I didn't. Some part of me still thought that all of this was my fault, something I had done to make Sam this way. I think that's the way he wanted it. Drug abuse is always someone else's fault.

The situation at home was causing me a lot of stress, and it began to tell on me. I had problems concentrating at work. I got frequent stomach aches and headaches. I was miserable, but I couldn't tell anyone. I kept up the facade of the giddy newlywed.

After a bout of vomiting, I asked to go home. I got to my car, and after vomiting again, I managed to drive home without further incident.

I parked my car, and moving carefully so as not to get sick again, I unlocked the front door and swung it open. I slowly took in the details of the scene in front of me.

Sam and his "friends" were sitting around the coffee table. They had their sleeves rolled up, and the inside of their elbows looked rashy and sore. Sam had a belt around his upper arm. On the table, there was a blackened spoon, burnt matches, a vial of white powder. An acrid smell filled the room. a man was lying on the floor, as if dead. Another was trying very hard to focus on me. Sam was frozen in position, just about to inject himself. Our eyes met, and locked. This time, he did not smile.

I turned and walked back to my car. I went to my parents' house and collapsed. Apparently, I had a stomach virus that, without antibiotics, tended to become very vicious. It took about a week to overcome, and during that time, I told my parents everything.

I never went back to that house. With my parent's help, I got my stuff moved out, everything that Sam didn't sell, that is. My jewelry, my TV, my stereo, all gone. I was numb, and just let my parents handle it all. They talked to my landlord and got me out of my lease. They called the police, but Sam had disappeared. For good, apparently.

The courts helped me to anull my marriage. I was single again, and, according to them, I never had been married. Yes, I thought, that was good. It never happened, it was some awful, horrible nightmare. I could believe that, sometimes.

About a month later, I steeled myself and went to Bill's store. As soon as I walked in, I saw Bill, standing by the meat case. I went directly over to him, and said, "Why didn't you tell me? How could you let me get involved with that..." I trailed off. Bill's face was red. He grabbed my arm, and led me into his office. Shutting the door, he said, "Maria, I know you're mad at me. But I never would have let him come near you if I didn't believe that he was off the stuff, for good. That day you met him, he had just come out of rehab. He was in there for six months. It was a bad time for him. But he told us all he was off, and was going to stay off. I believed him, Maria," he said, looking in my eyes. "I wanted to believe. He's family. He was a good man, until the heroin got a hold of him." He turned away. "I don't know where he is. None of us do. The cops were in here looking for him, he stole some of your stuff, didn't he?" I nodded. "Have you heard from him?" he asked me. I could only shake my head. "I know this may not sound like much right now," Bill continued, "but I'm so glad nothing worse happened. I'm glad you're not with him anymore. I've seen you come in here, and I've been so ashamed that I didn't confide in you that I couldn't even bear to talk to you. Please forgive me." He hugged me, and I let him; what else could I do? I don't know; if it had been someone in my family, if I wouldn't have done the same thing.

It's been about twenty years since that experience. To this day, I still think about Sam. Is he still alive? Did he overdose in some dank, smelly basement, needle stuck in his arm? Or did he find some other gullable woman to keep his habit going?

I know I could have avoided the whole mess if I had just listened to my family, if I had been a little more aware of the signs of heroin abuse, if I had not been so damned prideful and intent on defending Sam. If I had had a little more self-esteem. A little more faith in myself that I deserved better.

As I look back now, I think that's the worst of it, that I would allow any man to make me lose faith in myself.

It was a hard road back to my self, but I think I've done pretty well. At least, I know that I will never sell myself short, ever again. I know I'm worth it.

The End