Yesterday, I began to have a "moment" around 3:30, and it's lasted for well over 24 hours now.
I almost knew it was coming, but was wondering what would trigger it. The trigger was the senior pep rally at school. I always enjoy seeing the seniors begin their months of nostalgia around this time of year. They start to realize this is the last pep rally, the last football game, the last . . . and so it goes. What hit me this time though is the moms. The moms of the seniors in the band, football, volleyball, dance team, cheerleaders, etc. performed and had large pictures of their kids with a baby picture on one side and the senior picture on the other. At the end of the pep rally, there was a lot of kid and mom hugging, picture taking, and thank yous from kids to parents. Sometimes this sort of thing just gets to me, and I think about what I've missed.
Why does this strike me? I really don't know for sure because I can't say that I would have ever been one of those moms, even if things had been more traditional with Ethan, but who knows. I already know that I won't be one of those moms with Asa, but at least I'll get to go through all the steps with him. He's not involved in anything at school which would garner such public display, but we will have our own markers. I think it's the missing of the opportunity for the steps that gets to me. All the missed opportunities.
I'm not fully satisfied with that answer though. Right now, Asa is just fine and I have very little worries about him, except for passing math. Right now, Ethan has been clean for almost 90 days, and he is in such better shape than he has been in the last 6 years. I'm amazingly grateful for that! It's still tough for him though, not just the daily fight against addiction, but the daily living of an adult. I never had the chance to teach him HOW to be a grown up. There is so much he doesn't know, and now I can't teach him all the details very well. I've sent him out into the world with very few practical skills. I realize that it's not my fault, but fault doesn't matter. It's irrelevant. My child is an adult, but a child, and I can't teach him what he needs to know now. The world of reality is difficult enough for him, I just wish I could help. Anyone reading this is probably thinking, "Get over it! It's not your fault or your problem." However, it hurts and it is my problem. I wanted that time, and no matter how old he is, he's in need of the parenting he wasn't here to get. I feel I've let him down, even though I know I haven't. That's the melancholy speaking.
Recently, Asa has become interested in records, and was thrilled to learn that I still have boxes of records and a record player. All week, we've planned to dig out all the stuff and I was going to introduce him to the awesomeness of listening to records on the record player. We cleared out the closet and got the player out, put one of the records one, heard that wonderful popping sound just before the music, and then the music started. Just one problem, it played too slow. Guess it needs a new belt under the turntable. Asa was so disappointed, and I felt like I had let him down, even though I know I haven't. Just one of those things. That's the melancholy speaking.
Halloween, turned the lights off and sat on the couch watching TV. Asa was out with a friend, and I was glad for that. He has always loved Halloween, and he really wanted to sport his new Leather-face costume. I miss Halloween when the boys were little. They both looked forward to it all year, and we had fun with the costumes and trick-or-treating. The fall season of their youth, in Ohio, was always so picturesque. I'm glad they have those memories. I'm glad I have those memories too, but I do miss the joy and innocence.
With Halloween, comes the rest of the holidays in rapid succession. That used to bring on happy times, but now I get anxious. I don't like feeling like that. I need my old excitement for Asa and for myself. Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, always my favorite holidays. I want to enjoy them like I used to, but over the last few years, they've brought more and more anxiety. Asa will be gone for Thanksgiving, so I won't be doing anything, for the first time ever. That will be weird. The last years of Christmas with Ethan has been very spotty, and I've mainly only been able to see him for several hours on that day. This year, I won't see him at all. I'm willing to tolerate that trade-off for his sobriety, but I'll miss him. I'm trying very hard to get some excitement for the holidays, but in reality, I want to shed a tear or two when thinking about them. That's the melancholy speaking too.
I don't like it when I feel this way, but I think we all have expectations of how we think our lives will move forward, and what the future will hold for our children. Rarely do those expectations come to be as we imagine them. My boys and I have been through some very difficult times, and while I've done the best I have known how to do, I sometimes feel as if I've done all of it wrong and that I've let my kids down. The little things add up, and I thought I'd do a better job with all of this. I have these moments of melancholy which usually last for a few days and then lift, and during them, I feel like quite the failure.
I'm sure it will pass, as it usually does . . .
Sunday, November 2, 2014
Friday, July 25, 2014
New Orleans 19 miles . .
Whenever I drive to New Orleans, I always get into town after dark. I'm good with that. Some people don't like driving over the swamps at night. As I was driving in tonight, I realized that last stretch of things is actually my favorite part.
The mileage sign which says "New Orleans 19" always makes me smile. At first, I just assumed that smile came because I was almost there, almost to the "home" I miss, and after a drive like today's turned out to be, a relief. On further thought though, that's only a small part of it. In that last 19 miles, I cross the Bonnet Carre Spillway & part of the enormous Lake Pontchartrain. To my left is 630 square miles of lake, but at night, without a light anywhere, it looks like a solid black wall. I remember once going out with someone on the lake at night, & it was amazing! It kind of felt like being in a black hole, but still able to see a vast array of stars through the top. I could hear the water lapping on the side of the boat, & feel the wind as it glided over my skin. It was another world besides the black wall I see now to my left, so the black wall makes me smile. I know what's hidden there.
To my right, on much of this last 19 miles, is that spillway. For those of you not in the know, in New Orleans things are rarely pronounced as you would expect from the spelling, so the Bonnet Carre is pronounced as Bonnie Carrie. The swamps are back that way too, along with the glow of the refineries in the distance. Where the left is a black wall, the right is full of a life which goes back through the ages. Another memory . . . In high school, the boys liked to go out riding in the mud by the Spillway. I went along a couple of times, but I always had a fear that they would open the Spillway without us knowing, & we would be washed away, so I couldn't fully enjoy the experience. Anyway, to my right, are lots of dimly lit, hidden away "camps" (what we call the houses on the water, pretty much.) Out there is gator hunting & all kinds of things that go slither into the night. There are also what I refer to as the toothpick trees. What is left of the trees when the water and wind have done their job. Then, back in the distance, is that orange & yellow glow from the refineries. Without that glow, I would have a black wall on the right to match the one on the left. Instead, that glow gives the toothpick trees a perpetual sunset background. That glow also represents the enterprise and hard labor of Louisiana people over the last 300 years. The hard work on the plantations and of the small farmers to make a go of life on the river, the lake, and the swamp, to battle the heat, the debilitating humidity, the mosquitoes, and all the other dangers of the region. I think back to my Louisiana History class in middle school, and remember the stories of Iberville finding the Mississippi delta at Biloxi and his brother Bienville establishing New Orleans upriver in a crescent bend he thought would be safe. So began the Crescent City. That illumination my come from an environmental sore, but it is a continuation of the souls of those who have gone before in hard toil.
Perhaps I romanticize a bit, but for me, this area is so rich with the souls of others, souls which still linger. It is a different & beautiful world in countless ways, and mostly because it is accepted and appreciated as a very imperfect world. As my son Asa said, " I like this place because everything is just a little broken, but it's ok." Yep, we just roll with it, and sometimes even celebrate it.
It's not long before I'm off the long bridge and into town. Now it's back to a much more modern, real world, and my 19 miles are done. I'm back in the land of a festival for anything and the drive thru daiquiri. That must be my next stop.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Turning 50 . . . . part II (the happy part)
Approaching San Francisco . . . .
I've finally had some sleep, and we are approaching San Francisco, so my mood has lifted considerably. Time for fun!! Let me begin by saying that were it not for this four day escape, I might have had that breakdown I've been on the verge of for a few years. Whew!!
My friend Kenny, whose birthday we were all gathering to celebrate, is just a wonderful person. I felt honored to have been invited along on this trip, and to be included with his family and other friends who played a part in his life. Seriously! Kenny and I went to high school together in New Orleans, and were friends then, but have become much greater friends through more recent years. He's got a generous and happy heart, and likes to share that. I was traveling with my own emotional baggage I was trying to lose in transit, but Kenny had his to, due to recent breakup with his partner of the last decade. I believe he and I were really ready to change the course of things for ourselves. We were at 50, new decade, new start, all that good stuff. Out with the old, in with the new and improved. This was it!
As it turns out, with this group of family and friends, we could have been in Fargo, North Dakota, and would have had a blast! (No offense intended, Fargo.) I jumped into a group which varied in size at different times from 12-18, and felt like I had known them forever. I was back in my New Orleans element, and it was relaxed, fun, and just plain good. There is an attitude of N.O. people you just don't get anywhere else. I miss it, and so badly needed it! I don't remember the last time I laughed as much. Every experience, riding the ferry, a catamaran sail at sunset, running through Muir Woods because we were out of time, sitting on the shuttle bus, eating spoonfuls of garlic sauce at The Stinking Rose, touring vineyards, the party bus while touring vineyards, the birthday dinner at the winery of one of Kenny's old friends, the way we all just gelled together as if we did this all the time . . . the wine, champagne, more wine, and yet more wine . . . . it was simply perfect. Although my own selfish desire to escape and be happy was ever present, I so badly wanted my friend to see how much he was loved and cherished by so many, and remind him that endings only bring new beginnings. Start anew, and create exactly what we want for ourselves. I want my dear friend to have all that he wants in this life, which only he completely knows.
I recently had a conversation with someone in a rather unhappy place in life, and asked, "what do you want from this life?" It's a big question, but the most important one ever. What is the first thing, maybe even one word, that comes to mind when asked what it is you want from this life? As a big question, you may think that a simple answer is too, well, simple or general, but it's really not. The answer is the big picture you want. The details are in how you achieve it, how you work toward it, and how you appreciate the bumps along the way. There are always bumps.
Over the course of the 4 days in SF, I began to ponder the question again myself. I was also reminded of what the answer to the question was for me. My answer, the big picture one, is two-fold: love and happiness. Of course we all want love, but that's not what I'm talking about. I know I am loved by my family and friends. It is what carries me, comforts me, warms my heart. The love I'm talking about though is the kind that warms my soul. My soul is weary, it has been battered, and it is time to heal. There was once someone who told me repeatedly that I was unlovable. I knew he was wrong, and not just wrong, but stupid. However, sometimes those dagger words pierce the skin, enter the soul, and allow some of it to escape. Other injuries and scars are made by more harsh words, betrayal, and dishonesty. Eventually, the scar tissue blocks out those soul rays, and the light begins to fade. My light will fade no more. It is already warming up, and I am confident that it will once again be a full glow. The pilot light is lit. So that's the first part. The second part is happiness.
The happiness I want from this life has never been completely absent, even in the darkest times, but I want more of it. I want to be greedy for it, hog it for myself, and wallow in it. I'm not talking about just having a good day. I want laughter, lots of laughter! On this trip to SF, I was reminded of how much I love to laugh. I love it! I like being silly. I like being inappropriate. I like being surrounded by people who joke and play, and who love to share it. I find so much of that in my connection to New Orleans, but I want it everywhere I am. I may very well end up back there some day, but I have no intention of waiting until and if that time comes. I have troubles in my heart, things I can't fix, but I refuse, even more staunchly to let that win out. I have described our group that weekend as not being a quiet and subtle group. Thank goodness! We carried with us an overflow of happiness, joy, and fun, and others around couldn't help but join in. The crew of the catamaran was laughing, smiling, and having fun as they watched us revel in the mere fact that we were all there together and happy. At the Russian River Vineyards a few of the group spontaneously began a rendition of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day," which was followed by the Who Dat chant. Others at the vineyard came to see what was going on and couldn't help but feel our joy. The young man who led our wine tasting said, "I have no idea what just happened here, but that was freakin' AWESOME! I wish we had more people like you all come through here." That joy, that happiness, I want more. I don't want to feel inhibited about it. I don't care what anyone thinks if I choose to be silly and make a joyful fool of myself. I just want more of it. More!
No matter what happened before I left for SF, by the time I came back four days later, I had regained focus of my "what do I want out of this life" question. Intuitively, I know that I have turned a corner, not just chronologically, but psychologically. I pray that my friend Kenny feels himself turning that corner too. I thought turning 40 was going to open my life up again, but I was a bit premature. Fifty is the start of the new. Let's do this thing!
I've finally had some sleep, and we are approaching San Francisco, so my mood has lifted considerably. Time for fun!! Let me begin by saying that were it not for this four day escape, I might have had that breakdown I've been on the verge of for a few years. Whew!!
My friend Kenny, whose birthday we were all gathering to celebrate, is just a wonderful person. I felt honored to have been invited along on this trip, and to be included with his family and other friends who played a part in his life. Seriously! Kenny and I went to high school together in New Orleans, and were friends then, but have become much greater friends through more recent years. He's got a generous and happy heart, and likes to share that. I was traveling with my own emotional baggage I was trying to lose in transit, but Kenny had his to, due to recent breakup with his partner of the last decade. I believe he and I were really ready to change the course of things for ourselves. We were at 50, new decade, new start, all that good stuff. Out with the old, in with the new and improved. This was it!
As it turns out, with this group of family and friends, we could have been in Fargo, North Dakota, and would have had a blast! (No offense intended, Fargo.) I jumped into a group which varied in size at different times from 12-18, and felt like I had known them forever. I was back in my New Orleans element, and it was relaxed, fun, and just plain good. There is an attitude of N.O. people you just don't get anywhere else. I miss it, and so badly needed it! I don't remember the last time I laughed as much. Every experience, riding the ferry, a catamaran sail at sunset, running through Muir Woods because we were out of time, sitting on the shuttle bus, eating spoonfuls of garlic sauce at The Stinking Rose, touring vineyards, the party bus while touring vineyards, the birthday dinner at the winery of one of Kenny's old friends, the way we all just gelled together as if we did this all the time . . . the wine, champagne, more wine, and yet more wine . . . . it was simply perfect. Although my own selfish desire to escape and be happy was ever present, I so badly wanted my friend to see how much he was loved and cherished by so many, and remind him that endings only bring new beginnings. Start anew, and create exactly what we want for ourselves. I want my dear friend to have all that he wants in this life, which only he completely knows.
I recently had a conversation with someone in a rather unhappy place in life, and asked, "what do you want from this life?" It's a big question, but the most important one ever. What is the first thing, maybe even one word, that comes to mind when asked what it is you want from this life? As a big question, you may think that a simple answer is too, well, simple or general, but it's really not. The answer is the big picture you want. The details are in how you achieve it, how you work toward it, and how you appreciate the bumps along the way. There are always bumps.
Over the course of the 4 days in SF, I began to ponder the question again myself. I was also reminded of what the answer to the question was for me. My answer, the big picture one, is two-fold: love and happiness. Of course we all want love, but that's not what I'm talking about. I know I am loved by my family and friends. It is what carries me, comforts me, warms my heart. The love I'm talking about though is the kind that warms my soul. My soul is weary, it has been battered, and it is time to heal. There was once someone who told me repeatedly that I was unlovable. I knew he was wrong, and not just wrong, but stupid. However, sometimes those dagger words pierce the skin, enter the soul, and allow some of it to escape. Other injuries and scars are made by more harsh words, betrayal, and dishonesty. Eventually, the scar tissue blocks out those soul rays, and the light begins to fade. My light will fade no more. It is already warming up, and I am confident that it will once again be a full glow. The pilot light is lit. So that's the first part. The second part is happiness.
The happiness I want from this life has never been completely absent, even in the darkest times, but I want more of it. I want to be greedy for it, hog it for myself, and wallow in it. I'm not talking about just having a good day. I want laughter, lots of laughter! On this trip to SF, I was reminded of how much I love to laugh. I love it! I like being silly. I like being inappropriate. I like being surrounded by people who joke and play, and who love to share it. I find so much of that in my connection to New Orleans, but I want it everywhere I am. I may very well end up back there some day, but I have no intention of waiting until and if that time comes. I have troubles in my heart, things I can't fix, but I refuse, even more staunchly to let that win out. I have described our group that weekend as not being a quiet and subtle group. Thank goodness! We carried with us an overflow of happiness, joy, and fun, and others around couldn't help but join in. The crew of the catamaran was laughing, smiling, and having fun as they watched us revel in the mere fact that we were all there together and happy. At the Russian River Vineyards a few of the group spontaneously began a rendition of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day," which was followed by the Who Dat chant. Others at the vineyard came to see what was going on and couldn't help but feel our joy. The young man who led our wine tasting said, "I have no idea what just happened here, but that was freakin' AWESOME! I wish we had more people like you all come through here." That joy, that happiness, I want more. I don't want to feel inhibited about it. I don't care what anyone thinks if I choose to be silly and make a joyful fool of myself. I just want more of it. More!
No matter what happened before I left for SF, by the time I came back four days later, I had regained focus of my "what do I want out of this life" question. Intuitively, I know that I have turned a corner, not just chronologically, but psychologically. I pray that my friend Kenny feels himself turning that corner too. I thought turning 40 was going to open my life up again, but I was a bit premature. Fifty is the start of the new. Let's do this thing!
Turning 50 . . . .part I (the ugh part)
It has been months since I last wrote. It's not that there hasn't been anything on my mind; quite the contrary. Sometimes I just need to reflect for a while before I really know what I want to say. Then again, sometimes I'm just lazy. I'm thinking the lazy part most appropriately applies here, but there has been much to ponder. Today is May 30, and I am now 10 days into my 5th decade. Yes, on May 20, I turned the big 5 0 !!! This was not a traumatic event for me, as I know it is with some. In fact, I see it as a time to begin again, a fresh start, a new chapter in life, etc.
Let me explain how I spent my 50th birthday. . . . the day itself pretty much sucked, except for the part where I was at work and my students and co-workers graciously wished me good things. At home was another story. The previous couple of days had been spent with my oldest son in the emergency room as he was withdrawing from meth, heroin, and God knows what else. I had to let him come home with me to keep an eye on him for a few days. I cleaned up vomit from the bathtub, and on my birthday, as I speedily tried to get out the door for work, had to clean vomit from the kitchen sink. Drugs suck, but you've been hearing that from me for quite a while now, so I won't go on with that. During the day, he texted me that he was throwing up blood. Right after work, back to the ER we go. FIVE HOURS LATER . . . . we're still waiting to be seen, and we leave. Seems that he's feeling much better now. Unfortunately, that nice steak dinner my younger son and I planned to have for my birthday didn't seem possible. In the end, we made it to the restaurant at 9:30, and closed it down. That was my birthday. No pomp and circumstance, just another day, but I felt differently. In a good way, differently.
None of the above really mattered though because two days later, I would be leaving for a fun-filled weekend in San Francisco! This excursion was the brain child of a dear high school friend from New Orleans. Friends and family of his were all going out to San Francisco to celebrate HIS 50th, which was coming on May 25th. All I had to do was deliver the younger son to his father, drop off the older son wherever he was choosing to live at the moment, take the dog to the vet for boarding, and make it through a day of work. Here's how that Wednesday went down . . . woke up to older son feeling better and younger son throwing up from a stomach virus. Awesome! More barf! Yuck! Ok, off to work. Come home, drop off younger son, and then proceed to have hours of crap from older son. Turns out he had no intention of leaving. Verbal and emotional abuse, screaming at me, telling me I'd have to call the police to get him to leave, etc. Yes, I understand that he would very much like to have "home" again, but home doesn't ever work for him. This was a big reminder of why. I sat there, listening to all of it, it brought me back to what I used to deal with from his father, and I just became paralyzed. I just stopped moving, thinking, etc. Sat there. With the help of a friend, we managed to get him out of the house without calling the police, she got me started on packing, and I got a couple of hours of sleep before work.
Thursday, flying out to SF day . . . . older son texted a sincere apology, younger son texted to make sure I was ok and that his brother and the drama was gone. We love him dearly, but his addiction and behavior does not allow him to be with us. Stomach is in knots all day about the previous evening. When dealing with an addict, you always wonder if maybe this time was the time I should have done something but didn't. Truth is, only the addict can do something. The emotional hurt of the parent is astronomical, and I'm sure my son says the same thing from his view. For this new decade, I make the vow of putting MY needs on the table, and not giving the addiction as much time. I've gotten so much better, but still so easy to fall into the mind games.
Please, let's just get on the damn plane and escape for a few days!!!! At the airport, and on the plane, the reflecting, which I had so looked forward to, was finally beginning. My brain relaxed enough to process the birthday, and the terrible week so far. Put it behind, gain perspective, focus on the fun weekend ahead, have some fun for ME, especially with old friends. The smile returns to my face. Wheels up . . . . heading to San Francisco.
End of Part I . . . . go to the next entry for the fun part!
Let me explain how I spent my 50th birthday. . . . the day itself pretty much sucked, except for the part where I was at work and my students and co-workers graciously wished me good things. At home was another story. The previous couple of days had been spent with my oldest son in the emergency room as he was withdrawing from meth, heroin, and God knows what else. I had to let him come home with me to keep an eye on him for a few days. I cleaned up vomit from the bathtub, and on my birthday, as I speedily tried to get out the door for work, had to clean vomit from the kitchen sink. Drugs suck, but you've been hearing that from me for quite a while now, so I won't go on with that. During the day, he texted me that he was throwing up blood. Right after work, back to the ER we go. FIVE HOURS LATER . . . . we're still waiting to be seen, and we leave. Seems that he's feeling much better now. Unfortunately, that nice steak dinner my younger son and I planned to have for my birthday didn't seem possible. In the end, we made it to the restaurant at 9:30, and closed it down. That was my birthday. No pomp and circumstance, just another day, but I felt differently. In a good way, differently.
None of the above really mattered though because two days later, I would be leaving for a fun-filled weekend in San Francisco! This excursion was the brain child of a dear high school friend from New Orleans. Friends and family of his were all going out to San Francisco to celebrate HIS 50th, which was coming on May 25th. All I had to do was deliver the younger son to his father, drop off the older son wherever he was choosing to live at the moment, take the dog to the vet for boarding, and make it through a day of work. Here's how that Wednesday went down . . . woke up to older son feeling better and younger son throwing up from a stomach virus. Awesome! More barf! Yuck! Ok, off to work. Come home, drop off younger son, and then proceed to have hours of crap from older son. Turns out he had no intention of leaving. Verbal and emotional abuse, screaming at me, telling me I'd have to call the police to get him to leave, etc. Yes, I understand that he would very much like to have "home" again, but home doesn't ever work for him. This was a big reminder of why. I sat there, listening to all of it, it brought me back to what I used to deal with from his father, and I just became paralyzed. I just stopped moving, thinking, etc. Sat there. With the help of a friend, we managed to get him out of the house without calling the police, she got me started on packing, and I got a couple of hours of sleep before work.
Thursday, flying out to SF day . . . . older son texted a sincere apology, younger son texted to make sure I was ok and that his brother and the drama was gone. We love him dearly, but his addiction and behavior does not allow him to be with us. Stomach is in knots all day about the previous evening. When dealing with an addict, you always wonder if maybe this time was the time I should have done something but didn't. Truth is, only the addict can do something. The emotional hurt of the parent is astronomical, and I'm sure my son says the same thing from his view. For this new decade, I make the vow of putting MY needs on the table, and not giving the addiction as much time. I've gotten so much better, but still so easy to fall into the mind games.
Please, let's just get on the damn plane and escape for a few days!!!! At the airport, and on the plane, the reflecting, which I had so looked forward to, was finally beginning. My brain relaxed enough to process the birthday, and the terrible week so far. Put it behind, gain perspective, focus on the fun weekend ahead, have some fun for ME, especially with old friends. The smile returns to my face. Wheels up . . . . heading to San Francisco.
End of Part I . . . . go to the next entry for the fun part!
Friday, January 24, 2014
A Missing Child
As we drive along the pitch black highway in the middle of nowhere, I'm relieved that he can't see the tears flowing down my cheeks. In fact, he would be oblivious to them even if he could see in the dark, not because he doesn't care, but he just doesn't understand, and he can't.
"Mom, I really need to get out of town. Things are getting out of hand. Can you drive me?"
"It's over a two hour drive each way, and I'll have to do it on a work night. But, if you're needing to get out of town, it's probably a good idea. I'll take you, but when you decide to come back, you're on your own for a ride. You know I have to keep distance."
"I know, Mom. I understand. No problem. Thank you."
So, at nearly 9 p.m., we head out down the dark highway to the middle of nowhere, east Texas. As we go, I'm watching the person sitting next to me in the passenger seat. He's talking non-stop,coming down from meth, pcp, and pot, telling me all kinds of stories, losing his train of thought, jumping topics. As he's talking, he's looking through the case of CDs he made a year ago while on house arrest and bored mindless. It's all music I was happy not hearing for the past year, but it's just for a little while, and it keeps him calm, so I don't complain.
I try to convince myself that this is my child sitting next to me, the one I used to lay in bed with and talk to for what seemed like forever when I would put him to bed at night as a young boy. I try to convince myself that this is the child who was so excited when he was big enough to sit in the front seat, because it meant he could talk to me more, and easier. I try to convince myself that this is the same child who once had a hard time deciding whether he wanted to listen to a CD of NSYNC or Backstreet Boys on the way to school in his elementary days. It doesn't work though. It's not the same child.
Over the last five years, I've held on to the hope that my true child would return. He's been missing for a very long time, and I convinced myself that he was still somewhere inside that form. It gave me hope. I had a stupid fantasy that one day, he would just appear out of nowhere, that I'd be talking to the form, and out would pop MY child. Poof! Just like that. He's in there somewhere. Don't give up hope. That has been my mantra. As I look to my right, at the form sitting in the passenger seat, talking, jittering, flipping pages in the CD album, sometimes making no sense, speaking in a language I don't understand, an emaciated shell of what used to be, I realize that my missing child will never return. Take down the poster; he's left, and there's no way he can return.
A few more tears trickle down my face. They are silent, and he doesn't see.
I have so many wonderful memories of life with the missing child. The first flutters of life in my belly, the nausea, the need for a sausage biscuit from McDonald's every morning. The movement as his feet poked out of my tight womb, his need for ice cream every night at 10:00 to calm down his tumbling act so I could sleep. His dangerous birth, his amazing blue eyes looking up at me while drinking his bottle in the middle of the night. My constant companion for two years. His sitting on the floor surrounded by books, "reading," at the age of 18 months. My cuddle companion. My compassionate hearted child who loved to hold my hand and give me hugs. His joy as I lead his classroom parties in elementary school. His fascination with the American Presidents, with the Titanic, with shoes. So, so many things. These days, I find myself trying harder and harder to cement these memories in my brain. I feel a burning need to get the old video tapes digitized so I don't forget anything. I want to preserve every moment, every hand hold, every hug, every dance to Mary Poppins' Step in Time song, every smile, and every time I peeked in to see him sleep. I need to preserve these memories because my missing child will not return.
I ask him, "Do you have any memory of your life before you started drugs? Any happy memories that come to your mind at any time?" It's almost as if I want him to prove who it is he's supposed to be.
"To be honest, Mom, I really don't. The drugs have erased a lot. I mean, if you tell me something, it'll come back to me usually, but I can't ever seem to think of them on my own. Maybe that's a good thing. I don't know. You know I've got holes in my brain from the drugs, Mom," he says with a weird I'm-almost-proud-of-that-because-I'm-a-drug-addict grinning and laughing way. "Really? Nothing?" I ask. "No, unless you tell me."
Ok, that opened the faucet more. I'm still relieved that he can't, doesn't see. If he had, he would have felt guilty, he would have stopped talking, it would have put a strain on the dark drive. Better to enjoy what I had there at the time. Truth is, I never really know whether each conversation, each hug, and each "I love you" will be our last. He lives a dangerous life, a life on the edge which is full of meth heads, dealers, psycho behavior, paranoia, and pipes. A nomadic life, going from house to house, couch to couch, addict to addict. If the drugs don't kill him, I always fear that the lifestyle will. In this area, I can maintain hope that he will survive.
I believe it has been a false hope to think MY child will ever return. The truth is that he is forever changed, and will never be able to recapture his former self. Right now, he is the form sitting next to me, behaving as someone I don't know, someone I wouldn't normally be sitting next to for a two hour drive. If he ever decides to give up this lifestyle and all the related drugs, the person who will emerge will be a completely different person. My missing child is actually no longer missing . . . .he is gone. So the question becomes, what do I do in the meantime?
A few years ago, I wrote a blog about faith and hope. I thought I could maintain that state of mind, but I can't. Hope is an uncertain desire, faith is a firm belief that something is so. Now, five years into this nightmare of addiction, the only thing I seem to have faith in is our love for each other. He absolutely knows that I love him unconditionally and always will, and I know he truly loves me, even if he can't fully remember why. No matter what he does, no matter how bad, how disappointing, how stupid, I will always love him, the child who is gone, the form now present, and the person who will emerge. That's the only part I have faith in. Everything else is simply hope, a desire, which is uncertain, that he will survive and that the person who may emerge will be in a condition to function in this world, and will be able to know joy.
It's time to take down the missing posters. That part is over. Now, I have to wait to get to know the person who will essentially be born from this dis-tempered womb of addiction. There is such an amazingly deep pain, a pain that I am unable to put into words, a pain which is visible in every physical inch of my body, a pain which I do not know how to fully release. Even when I think I've let a lot of it go, I realize that it is the glue which holds me together. It has seeped into all the cracks and into the core. If I were to let it go, all of the pieces would crumble, and there really isn't anybody to hold them together, or to pick them up and make the attempt to put the puzzle back together. The thought is frightening, and I'm tired of being frightened.
So, what do I do? I accept the tears, they are part of mourning the child who is gone. I maintain communication with the form who is currently occupying the body of my former child. I continue to hope that a new, full entity will emerge, and that I will have the opportunity to get to know that person. And finally, I continue to love him. I love the child who has passed, I love the form next to me in the car while I cry silent tears, and I will love whoever the person is who is born from this struggle. I will always love him, with all my heart, with my complete soul, with every fiber of my being. Why? Because no matter what, he is my son. I will perhaps one day meet someone who is willing and able to help hold together all of my crumbling pieces while I clean out the glue, and I can really let go of some of the pain.
In the meantime, I just love him, love his brother, and try to love myself a little bit more.
"Mom, I really need to get out of town. Things are getting out of hand. Can you drive me?"
"It's over a two hour drive each way, and I'll have to do it on a work night. But, if you're needing to get out of town, it's probably a good idea. I'll take you, but when you decide to come back, you're on your own for a ride. You know I have to keep distance."
"I know, Mom. I understand. No problem. Thank you."
So, at nearly 9 p.m., we head out down the dark highway to the middle of nowhere, east Texas. As we go, I'm watching the person sitting next to me in the passenger seat. He's talking non-stop,coming down from meth, pcp, and pot, telling me all kinds of stories, losing his train of thought, jumping topics. As he's talking, he's looking through the case of CDs he made a year ago while on house arrest and bored mindless. It's all music I was happy not hearing for the past year, but it's just for a little while, and it keeps him calm, so I don't complain.
I try to convince myself that this is my child sitting next to me, the one I used to lay in bed with and talk to for what seemed like forever when I would put him to bed at night as a young boy. I try to convince myself that this is the child who was so excited when he was big enough to sit in the front seat, because it meant he could talk to me more, and easier. I try to convince myself that this is the same child who once had a hard time deciding whether he wanted to listen to a CD of NSYNC or Backstreet Boys on the way to school in his elementary days. It doesn't work though. It's not the same child.
Over the last five years, I've held on to the hope that my true child would return. He's been missing for a very long time, and I convinced myself that he was still somewhere inside that form. It gave me hope. I had a stupid fantasy that one day, he would just appear out of nowhere, that I'd be talking to the form, and out would pop MY child. Poof! Just like that. He's in there somewhere. Don't give up hope. That has been my mantra. As I look to my right, at the form sitting in the passenger seat, talking, jittering, flipping pages in the CD album, sometimes making no sense, speaking in a language I don't understand, an emaciated shell of what used to be, I realize that my missing child will never return. Take down the poster; he's left, and there's no way he can return.
A few more tears trickle down my face. They are silent, and he doesn't see.
I have so many wonderful memories of life with the missing child. The first flutters of life in my belly, the nausea, the need for a sausage biscuit from McDonald's every morning. The movement as his feet poked out of my tight womb, his need for ice cream every night at 10:00 to calm down his tumbling act so I could sleep. His dangerous birth, his amazing blue eyes looking up at me while drinking his bottle in the middle of the night. My constant companion for two years. His sitting on the floor surrounded by books, "reading," at the age of 18 months. My cuddle companion. My compassionate hearted child who loved to hold my hand and give me hugs. His joy as I lead his classroom parties in elementary school. His fascination with the American Presidents, with the Titanic, with shoes. So, so many things. These days, I find myself trying harder and harder to cement these memories in my brain. I feel a burning need to get the old video tapes digitized so I don't forget anything. I want to preserve every moment, every hand hold, every hug, every dance to Mary Poppins' Step in Time song, every smile, and every time I peeked in to see him sleep. I need to preserve these memories because my missing child will not return.
I ask him, "Do you have any memory of your life before you started drugs? Any happy memories that come to your mind at any time?" It's almost as if I want him to prove who it is he's supposed to be.
"To be honest, Mom, I really don't. The drugs have erased a lot. I mean, if you tell me something, it'll come back to me usually, but I can't ever seem to think of them on my own. Maybe that's a good thing. I don't know. You know I've got holes in my brain from the drugs, Mom," he says with a weird I'm-almost-proud-of-that-because-I'm-a-drug-addict grinning and laughing way. "Really? Nothing?" I ask. "No, unless you tell me."
Ok, that opened the faucet more. I'm still relieved that he can't, doesn't see. If he had, he would have felt guilty, he would have stopped talking, it would have put a strain on the dark drive. Better to enjoy what I had there at the time. Truth is, I never really know whether each conversation, each hug, and each "I love you" will be our last. He lives a dangerous life, a life on the edge which is full of meth heads, dealers, psycho behavior, paranoia, and pipes. A nomadic life, going from house to house, couch to couch, addict to addict. If the drugs don't kill him, I always fear that the lifestyle will. In this area, I can maintain hope that he will survive.
I believe it has been a false hope to think MY child will ever return. The truth is that he is forever changed, and will never be able to recapture his former self. Right now, he is the form sitting next to me, behaving as someone I don't know, someone I wouldn't normally be sitting next to for a two hour drive. If he ever decides to give up this lifestyle and all the related drugs, the person who will emerge will be a completely different person. My missing child is actually no longer missing . . . .he is gone. So the question becomes, what do I do in the meantime?
A few years ago, I wrote a blog about faith and hope. I thought I could maintain that state of mind, but I can't. Hope is an uncertain desire, faith is a firm belief that something is so. Now, five years into this nightmare of addiction, the only thing I seem to have faith in is our love for each other. He absolutely knows that I love him unconditionally and always will, and I know he truly loves me, even if he can't fully remember why. No matter what he does, no matter how bad, how disappointing, how stupid, I will always love him, the child who is gone, the form now present, and the person who will emerge. That's the only part I have faith in. Everything else is simply hope, a desire, which is uncertain, that he will survive and that the person who may emerge will be in a condition to function in this world, and will be able to know joy.
It's time to take down the missing posters. That part is over. Now, I have to wait to get to know the person who will essentially be born from this dis-tempered womb of addiction. There is such an amazingly deep pain, a pain that I am unable to put into words, a pain which is visible in every physical inch of my body, a pain which I do not know how to fully release. Even when I think I've let a lot of it go, I realize that it is the glue which holds me together. It has seeped into all the cracks and into the core. If I were to let it go, all of the pieces would crumble, and there really isn't anybody to hold them together, or to pick them up and make the attempt to put the puzzle back together. The thought is frightening, and I'm tired of being frightened.
So, what do I do? I accept the tears, they are part of mourning the child who is gone. I maintain communication with the form who is currently occupying the body of my former child. I continue to hope that a new, full entity will emerge, and that I will have the opportunity to get to know that person. And finally, I continue to love him. I love the child who has passed, I love the form next to me in the car while I cry silent tears, and I will love whoever the person is who is born from this struggle. I will always love him, with all my heart, with my complete soul, with every fiber of my being. Why? Because no matter what, he is my son. I will perhaps one day meet someone who is willing and able to help hold together all of my crumbling pieces while I clean out the glue, and I can really let go of some of the pain.
In the meantime, I just love him, love his brother, and try to love myself a little bit more.
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