I AM writing this story regarding our son, Paul. He's a shy, polite working boy aged 23, who's had a very good upbringing, with a family that loves him, and a mother who adores him.

About 11 months ago, items belonging to my husband and me disappeared. There are three of us at home - my husband, Paul and myself. It was unexpected but, from that day on, we've had a serious and worrying problem.

Paul returned home that evening. I confronted him over the missing items. All he could do was break down and cry, running up to his bedroom. We followed and heard every parent's nightmare. Paul was a heroin addict.

We cried together that night. We went through so many emotions. I felt anger, let down, shocked. I asked myself ''Where did I go wrong? Why is this happening to my son?''

I then put my arms around my beautiful boy and confronted him, telling him that everything would be all right, ''we will sort it'' and, more important, ''I'll do everything to help you''.

Paul told us he was introduced to heroin through a friend; he didn't want to be left out. He also told us that he smoked cannabis before going on to the dreaded drug.

Why didn't I see the signs? Have I been too busy in my own working life not to notice my boy was feeling helpless? I have to admit my ignorance about drugs. I wish I'd known. I'd have seen the signs, maybe would have helped him sooner rather than later.

Paul and I went straight to our GP, who was most sympathetic. Paul was put off work for at least six weeks and prescribed with a handful of sedatives to help him through his detox. He was also put down on a waiting list to see a consultant.

I was concerned about my son. I was frightened I was going to lose him. I couldn't bare thinking about it... my son might die.

The detox started. My husband rang a drug advice line and explained what we intended to do. We wanted to make Paul as comfortable as possible, and make it easier for him. There was no such thing. My husband took notes from the advice line, what we should do to help him and what to expect.

Paul went through the cold turkey, the sweating, the shivering, and the convulsions. He thought he was going to die. It's that bad.

I talked him through it hour after hour, ran him baths on the hour - even in the early hours. I'd be dragging him out of bed while running a bath, he was so weak. He felt a little better afterwards, his body was calmer. Then I'd massage him till he tried to go to sleep.

That was another nightmare. They're so tired, they can't sleep. Heroin's too powerful.

It broke my heart seeing my boy going through this torture from a drug that had been poisoning his mind and his body. It was a very hard time for us all.

Paul was locked in our home for one month. I locked doors and locked the telephone, so he couldn't ring the dealers. It wasn't an easy time, with his pacing and his obnoxious attitude towards me.

He did warn me what he'd be like. He was right, but I put up with it. If I thought he was getting better, I'd put up with anything. I did because I love him.

I hated Paul for what he'd done to himself and his family but, like most mothers, I cared for him. The only time he was allowed out was with me. I bought him whatever he fancied from the supermarket and then we'd walk the dogs. At least the fresh air might make him sleep for a few hours.

We still had a lot to learn about the dreaded drug; Paul told me he needs it now to make him feel normal. He said it gave him a good ''kick'' when he first started taking it, but not now. My son on heroin, it didn't sink in. It was a nightmare, our nightmare.

Only my husband and daughter - who lives away - and myself knew of this terrible nightmare we were facing. I had my mother to tell. How would she take it? What will it do to her? She adores her grandchildren. That's something else I dreaded. I didn't want to hurt her. I kept putting it off.

My husband and my daughter started to worry about me. Who could I talk to about all this? Only the GP's drug-line and Turning Point. You don't talk about this sort of thing to anyone.

We thought we had him on the right road. But, among all the tears and the heartache, Paul couldn't free himself from his precious heroin. We started finding the dreaded foil as we searched through his bedroom daily. I knew the signs now: daily sickness, the eyes, not eating and, most of all, the sadness in his face.

We felt helpless. I didn't know what else to do to help him. Where is the help? People told me how ill I looked, I'd lost nearly two stone. When my daughter visited me for a weekend, she was horrified how ill and thin I'd become. I didn't notice. I was too wrapped up in Paul. I wanted my son back. I was on anti-depressants. I still am.

We went for help so many, many times. I've cried, begged, pleaded to get him help sooner, rather than later. We supported Paul as best as we could and there've been many tears. There's been much time wasted waiting to find him professional help. We're still waiting. All I feel now is a deep sadness and emptiness.

Paul has since committed eight offences and - as I write - he's awaiting his sentence at court. If he goes to prison, it will tear me apart. Then again, they might get him off the drugs. I don't know? We're going to lose him one way or the other, but where do we go from here? What's going to happen to my boy next?

This story is yours, Paul. I miss you so much. I love you.

Can someone do something? When will something be done? Help him! Help me!

Heartbroken mother