Three years ago, my son was diagnosed with a Grade 2 astrocytoma, a slow-growing brain tumor that can’t be cured. Doctors said he probably won’t live past his 30s.

Since then, life has been a nightmare. He dropped out of college and moved back in with us and fell into a deep depression. We tried everything to help him: therapy, support, just being there but nothing helped. He stopped going to appointments, stopped caring, barely left his room.

Then, about a year ago, he suddenly seemed better. He got a job at a gas station, got a girlfriend and moved in with her..

But then he stopped returning our calls. We didn’t know what was going on until my husband went to his job and was told he’d been fired months earlier for being high at work.

We were shocked. He’d never touched drugs before. My husband went to his girlfriend’s place. Our son answered the door clearly high, smelling of booze. We found out he’d been using fentanyl. His girlfriend was pregnant, also using. He had been stealing to support their habit.

We begged him to get help. He shut us out. We cried more than I thought was possible.

About six months ago, he OD’d and almost died. He was hospitalized for three days. He promised to get clean, moved back home, started rehab. We were so relieved.

it didn’t last long. Two weeks later we caught him trying to steal money from our home safe. He swore he wasn’t using again, just broke. I was so heartbroken I gave him a little money anyway, I couldn’t stand to see him suffering.

He kept asking for more. It became obvious he was using again. We confronted him, and he left. Moved in with new “friends.”

Yesterday we got a call from jail. He’d been caught trying to steal a car. I completely broke down and am utterly broken and filled with grief.

My daughter is depressed. My husband cries every time I mention our son’s name. I had to quit my job as I couldn’t function anymore.

Maybe the tumor is affecting his brain and behavior. Maybe it’s the drugs. But I can’t do it anymore. And I hate myself for saying this, but sometimes I wish he were just… gone. The guilt of even thinking that is unbearable. But I’m at my limit.

I told him not to contact us anymore. That it was better if he didn’t. And yet, I lie awake every night wondering if I’ve failed him completely.

I don’t even know what I’m asking by writing this. Maybe I just needed to write it all out and share it with strangers. AITA?