In 2000, when I was 19 and having an existential and Adderall-fueled nervous breakdown, I came home from college for a long weekend and sobbed in my mother's arms. She held me and shushed me, and then _ feeling like she was out of options, she'd tell me later _ took out a fat, round, green pill from a bottle on her night table and bit off a small chunk. "Here," she said as she pulled me close, "Maybe this will calm you down." It did.
I didn't even ask what it was before I swallowed it, but as soon as it kicked in, I knew: This feels like home.
I'd find out later it was OxyContin.
