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.
