I Don't Really Care for Rocky Road

So the thing about Rocky Road, is that you're never really clear on what you're putting into your mouth until you start to chew. One minute it is a chunk of almond, the next minute it's a marshmallow. Sometimes you expect to put no effort in, and you are surprised at the change in plans. The next minute, you're expecting to have to expend a little more energy, and you end up falling right through because of the excess force. I don't really like Rocky Road. I prefer Peanut Butter Cup.

With Peanut Butter Cup, it's like this. You know what you're getting, and you hope you can get more. It's occasionally chewy, I mean sometimes you don't get anything of substance, but that's ok, it still tastes good. When you do get something to chew on, you know exactly how much effort it takes, and it's even more enjoyable. But that may just be me.

Such is my life. I prefer things that aren't surprising. I mean, I like certain surprises. I like little gifts for no reason at all, I like getting notes in the mail. I justs don't like having things sneak up on me and cause me to put forth way more effort than I was counting on. I feel like I'm in good company though. I don't know very many people that really thrive on getting blindsided by things.

There's a twist though (I don't like twists either - I like one or the other. Or maybe one AND the other, but not at the same time). People don't ever grow by doing the same thing over and over again. If life is predictable, it becomes monotonous. It can be comforting to have predictability, but that comfort becomes uncomfortable soon enough. Nobody really gets anywhere by having a life that is the same from one day to the next, or has no ups and downs.

Sometimes life just throws you a big ol' chunky nut that you might have a hard time dealing with. The big ol' chunky thing in my life right now is the bowl of unpredictability that has become my relationship with my son. He is in such a hard place. WE are in such a hard place.

Treatment went poorly for nearly two months, and then suddenly, and with the help of anti-depressants, things began to take a turn for the better. For a solid week, he was smiling, he was willing to participate, he was taking things more seriously. And then it happened. He messed up. He did something silly, and they called me to come pick him up. Just like that. He is a "safety risk", they said. In three days, they would determine whether or not he could come back and continue treatment. For the first time ever, it's what my son actually wanted. He wanted to be there, he wanted things to be better.

They said no.

He was thrown from treatment, instantly back into our home with no warning, no preparation time, and no help. It was tough. Really tough. He tried, he really did. He was accommodating, he did a chore or two, he communicated with me. I had to take him to work with me. My husband took a turn taking him to work. But then something happened. I don't even know what it was. Some people call it a relapse, I call it a spiritual attack of huge proportions.

I went on a trip this past Friday with my daughter. It was important to her. It was a school function. We had a great time, until I found out that my son had ran away in the night. He ran away from the home that he was fighting so hard to return to. It made no sense at all to me.
Friday night.
Saturday.
Saturday night.
I returned home at around 5 am on Sunday, and had to call and report my son as missing.

Again.

I. hate. this. I really do. I seeth, I cry, I ball up my fists and I shake with anger and fear. What on earth is going on? I can't even get a grip sometimes. That scares me too. What's going to happen if I lose my mind? What happens if I can't get my heartbeat under control? Sometimes if I cough really hard, it goes back into a proper rhythm. That can't be good. What happens if I fly off the handle to my husband, or my other kids? What if I do something that can't be undone? Or unsaid?

Later that afternoon, he was in the bathroom brushing his teeth. I don't know when he got home, or what he had been doing. He was pretty nonchalant about the whole thing. I asked few questions. I got few answers. I felt sick. I was relieved, but I was also really, really pissed off. He grabbed the new clothes that I'd gotten him a few days prior to my trip, and had changed into them. I don't know why I did it, but I insisited that he take them off. As in right here, right now. I didn't feel that he should be coming home to put on new clothes that I had just purchased, with no explanation for where he had been, or with no respect for the household that was working to keep him clothed.

He seemed to think I'd lost my mind, but he stripped in the dining room. He changed into something else, while I went to my room to contact the police and let them know he was at home. I bet they get so annoyed with you, the voice in my head said bitterly. I sent my husband outside to watch the door, as I was feeling very unsure that my son was sticking around. By the time I'd finished my call, I went out and learned that at some point, he had gone again. Nobody even knew how he left the house, but he did.

We spent an hour driving through our streets. Finally, I just quit. I was done. I didn't want to do this anymore, I just wanted to be in my home, in my room, and I wanted to be alone. I even said so... except he left the door open a little bit because I think he worries about me.

This time I didn't tell anyone. I mean, I told the police, but I think that was about it. I'm sick and tired of having to tell people about the stupid crap we're going through. I don't like sympathy. I don't want sympathy. I don't want to cry anymore when people look at me like that. I don't want people telling me what to do, or what I should have done, or offering advice about something they know nothing about. I don't want to be judged. I don't want to be with anyone. But, even worse, I can't be alone.

I'm in a really difficult place right now. I don't even quite know how to explain it. It's sort of a parenting limbo. How do I let go of a sixteen year old? Sixteen years, is simply not enough, Lord. Oh please, oh please, give me more time with him. Give me strength to square my shoulders and stand strong for him, to believe in him, to love him. This grief is sometimes so unbearable that it's painful just to lift the covers off of myself every morning so I can do life. I know you're familiar with this grief. I know you feel the pain of losing your children. Help me to understand how to do this thing. He's not mine. He's yours. 

He is not mine. I think that's the marshmallow in my prayer. I do think I'm putting a whole lot of effort into something that I'm just falling right through. I feel like I need to step back, to not try so hard. I need to give it up. I need to let go. Ugh... But he's barely sixteen.

We have few outside offers of help for this boy. Some come with conditions, and rightfully so, and some are with no strings attached. But how do I put him with another family? How do I package up all of my junk, and mail it to someone I love and care about without destroying a relationship that I want to maintain? It feels like regifting.

I'm not even sure why I said that. Regifting isn't such a bad thing. Matter of fact, I've gotten a few very precious gifts that way. My Mother sometimes receives things that she passes on to me, and I love them. She doesn't just dump junk on me either. It's often a valuable thing, that she may or may not actually like, but she knows I'd enjoy it much more. It blesses me. She blesses me. It blesses her to bless me.

Maybe my thinking needs to change. Well, I KNOW it needs to change, because it's a real struggle to keep going the way it's been going. I do believe that I need to just learn to appreciate the textures of the Rocky Road. There's nothing really wrong with it. It's just more challenging. But in the end, you've still enjoyed something very good. I'll keep looking for the good.

Words Can Hurt or They Can Heal

It was a regular day. We stopped in for dinner with my son, expecting to stay for a group session. He was visibly surprised to see us. I was happy to be there. My husband was out of town that week, which meant I was more inclined to bring our other son along for some moral support. It's a fine line, this thing with my younger boy, knowing how prone he is to feeling like he needs to support and protect others, but yet not constantly putting him situations where he will feel the need to protect ME. 

I brought him mostly because his involvement in his brothers recovery is important. I had no idea how important he would be for MY recovery until an hour later. 

Dinner was pretty basic, and cleanup seemed to take forever, so we escaped to the living room, as is common for visiting families to do. Typically we get a little privacy to visit, but that wasn't happening this time. We were sharing the room with another client who was half-heartedly reading his book between making comments to us. 

Talking to my son seemed arduous. He wasn't willing to make normal conversation, and I have to be very careful how I place my words. I can't say normal things, like, "Hey, how are you feeling today?" The answer is always the same: "shitty." I try to ask leading questions, but typically get only a little ways before he decides to say something to upset me or ask when I'm getting him out of there. 

I'm used to hearing upsetting things. I'm sure I can say that with 100% certainly that I could relate on some level to a mother of a Tourette's child. The kind that words burst forth before they can be stopped. Words that are foul, startling and offensive. I've heard them all, so I have much practice in remaining unphased when these words burst forth from my otherwise gentle child. 

I know he wants a reaction, and it bothers him to get none. I continue on, asking questions and offering comments. I was not pleased to learn that he had been issued FIVE referrals. And on just that single day. He seemed proud to announce that to me. Something was not right. The Sunday prior, I picked him up on a day pass, which was part of our plan for integrating him back in to the household. He's had three. The other part of the plan is that he remain free of referrals. He can't go out on pass with referrals, especially the kind that he gets for intentionally causing problems. His next pass was to be his first overnight, and a day at the beach. He was clearly not going to get that pass. We were clearly not going to go with him to the beach. This sets us back yet another week. 

Everyone's ultimate goal is for our son to exit treatment as a healthier, stronger person. I'm certain his goal is to just leave. The fact that he continues to sabotage the whole process makes me really believe that we've got lots more work to do. He seems entrenched in a depression and its clouding his progress and his self-worth. 

I am fairly sure that it was about the time I said that we really needed him to keep himself in check so that he could come home, that he expressed for the first time, that he'd rather just stay there. I'm also fairly certain that the fracturing of my heart was audible. He wasn't asking to come home, he was just asking to get out. 

Through emotions held back by the Hoover Dam, I asked for clarification. He expressed that things at home still pretty much suck, and that people still argue, so he'd rather be where he's at than at home. "Nobody has changed anything", he said. "People still yell, my room is still messy. You aren't supporting me at all." 

Oh my dear boy, how wrong you are. There has been significant change at home, but he has not witnessed it. What's unfortunate, is that the only times he IS home, is when it's very stressful because he acts out the entire time. No wonder he believes nobody else has changed, because he won't. We are a loud family, yet we've all taken steps to lower the volume because he's so sensitive to it. We're loud when we're happy and loud when we're mad. This family is taking responsibility for things like never before. We are owning up to mistakes made, making amends, offering forgiveness. It's actually been great - but now he's really causing me to believe it's not enough. That we are not enough. I mentioned that to him, but he couldn't see it. So cloudy, this murky fog. It's sucking me right in. 

The moment I realized that I needed to leave crept in and over me before I could even properly verbalize it. The attitude, the lack of effort, the broken promises... I just stood up. I couldn't face this for one more second. I felt disgusted. I was not going to get emotional, because this battle was simply about that. How soon could he tear me down and make me feel just like him? Well it wasn't happening today. I looked at my younger boy, who had been trying so hard not to punch his brother in the face, and I told him we were leaving. That I wasn't going to agree to listen to these untruths any longer. 

Both boys looked very puzzled. I mean you can't just leave before group session. I ushered my youngest out the door to the foyer, then looked back to a pained look on my hurting boy's face that cut me like a knife. "Well BYE then", he said as he tried to keep his own composure. "Bye Son, I'll see you in a few days."

I was halfway to the car before the tears forced themselves out of my eyes. I'm familiar with this, I know the routine. Time to assume the look: The Mom, leaving the rehab facility that is holding her precious boy, shoulders slumped in defeat, hands shaky from adrenaline, tears free falling, sunglasses up! Keys in hand! Car open, get in, close the door and let it all go. Except this time I couldn't.

Why God chose to bless my youngest with the ability to sense discomfort and to bring forth wise words, words beyond his years, I will never know. But the fact that He did, is a great blessing to

Me. My boy didn't wait. He was telling me it was ok to feel upset even before I got the door closed. I was holding back so many more tears that I thought I might choke on them. How can I turn this into a positive?? I kept thinking. 

"Mom, you know, it's ok at home right? It's not us. What's going on here, is that satan is trying to get at you right now. He is getting at you through those things my brother says. He doesn't really mean those things, it's all the devil." 

How on earth could I feel defeated even one more second? The kid was right, he IS right. To hell with you, satan. No, really. Just go.

I let the tears fall as I acknowledged the beautiful truth of my sons words. I was crying because I was sad, I was proud, I was hurt, but I was healing. We positively enjoyed the best scoop of ice cream ever that evening. 

Made it to a Month

He's been in for a month. I was pretty sure we'd  never get to this day, so I'm actually really impressed. I'm impressed with him, and I'm even more impressed with myself. I literally can't count how many times I've been asked to rescue him from this. To take the burden off, to eliminate the consequence. There have been a lot of "two steps forward, one step back" things going on. But honestly, a lot of the time it feels more like two steps backwards before we get one step forward. I guess sometimes that's how it has to be.

Progress isn't always a forward motion. Sometimes I feel like I'm on a swing. One of those big wooden swings hanging under a tree. The kind with big ropes and a mud puddle underneath. Just when I feel like I'm getting some height and enjoying the ride, I look waaaay up to seek the sunshine through the branches, but I swing too high, flip backwards and land face-first in the puddle. It sucks. It's messy. Really messy. I don't just land... I splat. My clothes get dirty, my mouth gets full of nasty stuff, the wind gets knocked out of me and my eyes burn with tears from the suddent jolt of pain.

Having conversations with  my son is like that. I feel like we're getting somewhere, I feel like there is clarification, there are some answers, then SPLAT. I'm knocked right onto my face. I don't always see it coming, even though I feel pretty stupid that I should by now. Always optomistic. Always getting hurt. I guess that's better than always being pessimistic and then never getting hurt - because seriously that just means I'd be hurting everyone else and not really paying attention.

I'm thankful that I have a heart.
I'm glad that I'm going through this stuff. Really, truly, honestly thankful.
I'm happy that my family wants to be better at being a family.
I appreciate advice from others who have walked this path.
I've even apprecated advice from those who haven't. Especially the ones that tell me they have no clue what I'm going through, but they are willing to walk alongside me and wipe my tears as we go.
Wow, that's seriously the best thing ever.

Sometimes, though, people say things that really stink. My job as a Mom gets called into question:

Maybe you're not trying hard enough.
Maybe you're not saying the right things.
Maybe you're not HEARING.
Maybe you need to try to rid yourself of this burden.
Maybe you need to pass it off to someone else. 

Maybe, just maybe, I'm doing the best that I can, with the skills that I have and the guidance that I've been seeking? Maybe you well-meaning critics should should seriously stop expecting me to doubt myself right now? Maybe I'm doing ok, and this is just the way it's going to go to get to where we need to be? Maybe it's not a BAD thing to go through this stuff, to persevere, to learn and grow? I don't want to take shortcuts. I really believe there aren't any.

I'm ok. Dealing with a "problem" child is what Mom's do. Mom's don't just give up. Mom's learn to cope. Mom's just try everything possible, and when there's nothing left to try, they keep praying.

We just keep praying. 

Three Weeks One Step

TODAY was the first day we've had what felt like a good step forward in his treatment. It was also our first official family session with his counselor, as opposed to the multitude of group sessions we've attended with several other clients & families. 

He was open about his feelings, as best as he could be, and is appearing to begin to see how much destruction he has caused just by separating himself from his problems with substances or distance. I'm fully prepared for there to be several steps backwards, before we get a lot further along, but today was a really big thing, and I'm hoping that the momentum continues.

He has learned that it's ok to say what hurts him, and that we will not choose to get offended or to overreact. He has learned that just because people don't want to talk to him, it doesn't mean that HE has a problem or that he's a reject. He has learned that people who really care, will get all up in his business because he's totally worth it. He verbalized that getting things doesn't make him feel loved, but spending time and feeling heard sure does. He identified being positively affirmed as a really strong need. He has learned that the reason I won't engage in his verbal lashings is not because I don't care, or am afraid of him or I'm weak, but because I have boundaries and he needs to respect them before we can talk constructively or positively (and also before he can transition back into our home). He is beginning to want to earn trust back, and expresses a desire for honest, yet gentle, communication.

All of these things are huge for him, and for us. He was willing to listen while I validated his very real and legitimate feelings, and then while we explained some of the reasons why it was so hard to communicate with him in the past. We talked about the fun things we want to do, and what we missed about him not being at home. He was also willing to speak up to everyone at the group session tonight and they all applauded him for taking a step towards getting serious about his recovery. He was pretty much beaming. I'm so proud of him (and yes, he heard me say that at least three times.)

 This has been the hardest and longest three weeks of my life (and his as well).

Hoping the next update is as good if not better.

Two Weeks

I lied. I didn't write about his intake. It's because it pretty much sucked and I was too tired, too sad, to write about it. Nothing can prepare a parent for that. I can't remember ever crying that much in one week, except for the time his father abandoned us. 

He ran away just a few days in. It scared me a lot. I burst into tears when I got the news at work, on a school bus. The other driver just came over and stood there looking at me. Get the hell out of my face. You have no clue how much my heart is breaking, and I can't stand trying to explain it to people who think they know everything.

He was found right away (what can I say, we've had plenty of practice tracking him down?) We went to Taco Bell and then talked in the car for three hours. 

A week later, he ran away again. This time i was ready for it. I got really mad. I set alarms on our doors, and left town for a day to drink a margarita and enjoy a night out with the Girls. 

He showed up late at night, after being missing for 24 hours. I was still away. He did it that way so nobody would take him right back. He had also used again. Time to restart the clock. 

He slept in the bottom bunk in his sister's room that night. When I got home, I knelt down, brushed his hair out of his face and hugged him while he was asleep. He awoke and hugged me back so hard I could barely breathe. 

I'm glad you're here, I whispered. 

Me too, he said. 

He went to church with us the next morning, then we returned him that afternoon with no promises of anything, only expectations spelled out for him. It was pretty rough. 

It wasn't as rough, however, as the next time I was able to take him to church. On the way home he spit out foul words, expressing how pathetically weak he believed I was. "A F---ing weak Mother", to be exact. It stung. It stung hard. I bit my lip to keep the tears inside. I wouldn't engage. This just made him furious. 

He needs me to be weak, it's the only way he can get out of here unscathed. He needs me to crumble, and rescue him. 

Nope. Not happening. I love him too much. 

More vile words, more threats, more seething anger spilling out of this child's mouth. It's not me. It's not me. I had to repeat it over and over. I hugged him goodbye anyway. He said he was really sorry for what he'd said earlier. 

I forgive you. See you in a couple days. 

Rage Room

This is what the bedroom looks like that has been the victim of rage.
It's painful, it's raw, it's real.

I cried at the thought of him sitting on the floor, crying because he was so afraid of the changes that were imminent. I was sad because his little brother had to see him throwing this stuff. I was worried that he broke his brand new guitar (he did not).

I wrote him a letter this morning, and told him I forgave him. I told him I love him no matter what. He will read it tomorrow. I will write about his intake later. It was a lot to deal with, but not nearly as hard as I thought it would be.
The prayers, the well wishes, the smiling photo texts, the sweet gestures... all of them, I am thankful for. I am grateful you are all helping carry us through this valley!

Shopping List of Things I don't Want

Today is going nowhere. He said some pretty awful things to me, and I'm trying to be realistic and look past those words and just see his hurting heart. He's making everyone around him very, very angry. I wonder if it's his way of making it easier on me to let go of him tomorrow. Or for him to let go of me? I'll never know.

I picked him up right after school. I got the list of things he needed, and out of my sorry heart I just wanted him to be involved in choosing the things he needed to take with him. I didn't want to pack him a bag of all the things I chose and say "see ya". I thought that would be cold and uncaring. My intentions were honorable, but the outcome was terrible.

I took him to the store, I gently told him a few things at a time that we needed to get. Each thing he thought was stupid, and he said so. I asked which items he would prefer, and he didn't care. He said it over and over, just to make his point. He kept walking off, and since we were two towns away, my nerves were completely frazzled at the thought of him walking off and not coming back. I couldn't focus on what he needed and chase him down every other aisle. It was terrible. It was like having a toddler again, only one that was rude.
So... I sent a text to my husband. "Things are terrible here. I am struggling."
He texted back, "I'm done soon, want me to finish up or come now?"
"Now" was all I could say.

It took way too long for him to arrive, but once he did, he located our boy out in front of the store where he was wandering around. Thankfully, he just stayed there, while I finished checking off things on the extremely long list. The boy needed nearly complete wardrobe overhaul. Nothing with band logos. Well, that was nearly half of what he wore. No Jeans. Well, there's the other half. No polyester, plain, no logos, no pockets, no buttons, no strings.... Good grief. At one point, I sat down on a bench in the shoe department, because I couldn't find a pair of tennis shoes that had a grippy sole. Only the cheap plastic feeling kind, and all I could picture was him trying to participate in PE, and slipping on the floor and feeling embarassed because he was wearing crappy shoes that I had to pick out for him. I cried.

Then the hygiene products. Nothing with alcohol in it. Not too hard, unless you use conditioner. Or certain kinds of shaving cream, I learned. The socks. What color? Black or white? "I don't care". Fine, I got ten pairs of grey. I smirked at that one. Take that! Then I felt that icky guilt feeling again. I should be kind. I should care, but this kid has put me through so much! I wanted to just say forget it and buy all grey stuff. But I pushed on. I left with a cart full of cheap clothes that I wouldn't care if he threw away some day. I guess that was the objective. It's sort of like maternity clothes. You have to wear the same stuff for so long that you don't care if it gets tossed when the intended purpose is over with.

Hopefully someday soon, he can wear his band logo shirts again. And his button down fleece. And the boy really does look better in jeans than those three pairs of sweatpants. One of which had a pocket on the back - I hope nobody notices.

Dragging on and on

This part of the journey is dragging on like an ant carrying a pound of sugar. It's taking For.Ever.
I feel horrible wanting it to just be done and over with. I also feel horrible that I want to just change my mind and say, let's just keep it how it is. We know how to deal with it, it's just stressful is all. That's a bunch of baloney though, because one of these days I'm either going to have a stroke or a heart attack, and then who's gonna get the dishes done? The stress is slowly eating us all up from the inside.

Poor kid. He looks like a frightened puppy. I gave him permission to not come home after school. I said go to the skatepark and have fun with your friends. So, he did. I've not felt this relieved in a long time. I knew where he was, I wasn't doubting him, I wasn't worried, I just let him be. It was great.

He came home about 2 hours later than I'd asked, but frankly I didn't care. I was just glad he was home, and that we had a few more hours to be with each other. Except he wanted nothing to do with me...

Today was so much different from yesterday, yet so similar.

He Knows

He didn't take it well.

I told him I was telling him now, in order for him to have time to say goodbye to his friends, to pick out the things he wanted to take with him, and to do anything else he wanted before it was time to go. For some reason, I decided to tell him before he took his shower. He does that before he goes to bed. This particular night, he was so angry with me, with us, that he was shaking. He skipped his shower and went straight upstairs, doors slamming so hard I thought for sure that the glass would burst from the panes.

The younger brother had already been sent to bed early, as my patience wasn't very willing to cope with more than one meltdown at a time. As soon as the angry one went upstairs, we called the younger brother back down. He peeked into the living room with his eyes wide, fear written all over his face. He knew things weren't going well. He knew what anger looked like. He just had never seen it at this magnitude before from his usually "chill" brother.

That night, for the first time ever, the sister said to the younger brother, "You can sleep in my room. The bottom bunk is made up already." And that was the end of that. Two kids, huddled in the same room, afraid of the same person that they love, and yet enjoying a small amount of peace just knowing that they would look out for the other. My heart warmed a teensy bit,

Dread

Friday we are taking our son in for an intake appointment. He has to pack things. I don't want to do that. They said it could be 90 days, maybe more. How will I breathe? 

How will I even tell him? My biggest need now is for him to know that he is loved and supported no matter how much he hates this. Heck, I hate this too. Except I'm staying, and he's going. 

Today, I really felt the arms of support from those we love. Thank you for the prayers, and for holding us up when we just want to fall face down. 

Today is the day we attempt to tell our son that we love him but he has to go somewhere else for awhile. I'm not sure he'll get it. 

Dawn Comes in the Morning

Sunshine helps. It helps a lot. It's weird how one day, one hour, one conversation can be so utterly and completely overwhelming. Wasn't I over this? Haven't I had enough "counseling" to cure anything? Unfortunately, triggers don't come with a warning. They don't say, "Hey, I'd like to stop by tomorrow, say... about dinner time. Be prepared." Nope. They show up, they smack you around, and then they leave you in a puddle.

Hearing words that don't help when your heart is raw and exposed is the usual "rubbing salt in a wound". Hearing that I'm not helping either, isn't really a surprise, but it hurts me even more to know that I'm causing pain. Goodness, I have enough for everyone right now, why would I do that? I'll tell ya why. It's because hurt people hurt people. 

I think we broke through a few barriers the last couple of days. Our family feels like it's hanging on by a thread. Why make it worse? We need to hold on tight, we need to hold each other, we need Jesus.
I'm so sorry. I mumbled. I'm so sorry that I've said things out of my pain and anger. I'm sorry that I can't seem to just let Jesus carry us through this, I'm sorry that I'm a jerk, I'm sorry that I bitch about the most stupid crap ever, I'm sorry that I don't love you like I should. 

He is hurting too. Reeling from the revelation that even good intentions end up badly. Ignoring problems doesn't fix them. Paying for things costs money. Making money means being absent. Being absent means being out of touch. Please stop being absent when you are home?

Touching is healing. I'm telling you right now that if you (whoever you are) grabbed me in a hug I would just spill my glittery tears all over you and myself. I'm not sure why hiding out seems so safe. We hugged. We held hands. I just put my hand on his shoulder while he was reading. He asked why. I said because I can. And I should. We spooned. Then we stopped because sometimes I just want to sleep and seriously that isn't very comfortable when I want to just sleep.

Sunshine was peeking through my windows this morning. I managed to get up and make coffee. I haven't done that in weeks. I drove the boys to school without any issues. It was good. But, I had to say to my son, "Tonight. We need to talk." He only has three more days at this school, and he doesn't even know. He needs to know. I need to stop worrying about the "what if's".

Lonely Road

Trying to rationalize with someone who has no clue is painful. He really has no idea what this family is going through to just keep him with us. It's time to start letting some things go a little bit at a time. But which little piece of your heart do you rip off first? And where on earth do you throw it? 

This is so incredibly messy. 

And, so terribly lonely. 

How Stupid

"This makes absolutely no sense. This is so stupid, Mom. What a waste of money. I don't even have a problem. I can stop whenever I want, I just don't want to."

The waiting again. It's the worst part. The times between planning and actual implementation are agonizing. Everyone is guarded, on edge, and just dreadfully moody. Nobody wants to do this. I honestly think I'd just rather forget about it. 

Then, a wise friend tells me, "Just be there for him. Don't go anywhere. I went through this when I was a teenager, and the thing I remember most is that my parents stuck by me and believed in me." Energy restored, just like a power-up. We know we can make it to the next level. 

Taking the Weekend Off

Friday. I finally got the news that not only did my son fully meet all of the qualifications for needing treatment, but they recommended residential treatment. We had to get away to talk. They suggested taking the weekend. Talk, pray, take care of our own selves, whatever...

We made arrangements for our son to stay with his sister. He requested it, she made it happen. We provided food and money for her to take care of any necessities. 

We talked ourselves out of taking our travel trailer, and instead booked a hotel. That was a good decision. We got to our hotel rather late, so we just stayed in. I wanted to talk about stuff, but we were both so tired. All thoughts of having intimate conversation and quiet time with each other sort of vanished when I fell fast asleep during my husband's trip to the bathroom. He had argued with me over having a room with two beds. He didn't want to sleep alone. I just wanted sleep. 

In the morning, we took our time getting ready. This day already contained plans at my favorite camp that were previously arranged, so fitting them in was important. We enjoyed breakfast and got out to the camp by lunch time. We didn't talk about many things that were meaningful, but it was restful. I felt guilty about falling asleep in a different bed, and I also felt guilty for getting a good night's sleep. I can't win.

I had the rest of the day to spend time with my closest sister-friends, and it was like a soothing balm for my soul. The only thing that could have gone better is if I didn't have that constant nagging in the back of my head screaming What are we going to DO??

I tried my hardest to focus on having a good time, but I just couldn't go all in. More guilt. Yay, me. So, I said I'd come back the next day. 

We woke up after a great nights sleep for him and a miserable one for me. I couldn't even make it out of bed. Nothing was ok. All I wanted to do was go home. Sometimes things happen and words get said that drop-kick me right into a massive depressive pit. I think it's partially hormonal, partially the high stress/anxiety events going on, and partially the ongoing marital crap that just loves to pop in unannounced because it never got resolved in the first place. I hate it when I get like that...and the last thing in the world I want to do is be anywhere that I might rub my toxicity off on others. 

Currently, the only thing I seem to want to do, is to savor the good things about my family, about my son. Every other trivial thing seems like such a monumental aggravation. I don't want to feel like this. 

I'm fearful. I'm moody. I'm prone to crying for plenty of good reasons. I just want the world to stop spinning so I can sit and relax a minute. I feel like someone has died. Is this normal? 

Decisions decisions

Six days came and went. The assessment was weird. I guess I kind of anticipated some of the things, but the rest were easier than I thought. Since running away from problems seems to be the M.O. for my son, he was never notified that he was going to a drug/alcohol assessment until we were physically in the car and on our way to the appointment. 

We circled the block three times. Parking near any college campus is next to impossible on a weekday morning, so finally I asked to just get dropped off. 

We walked up the steps, and rang the doorbell as instructed. A curious, yet cheerful face greeted us, and let us inside. We were expected, and the office staff sent us up a flight of stairs, passing through a locked door, then into a corner office. I could hear several male voices chattering about something off down the hallway, and could smell lunch being prepared. 

We sat in chairs lined up against the wall. A box of toys separated my chair from his. The lady spoke kindly, and she welcomed us. He looked bewildered. She gave us paperwork to fill out and questionnaires for my son to complete. He still didn't really know what exactly was going on until he was partway through the small stack of pages in his lap. Even then, he didn't really seem to care much.

The counselor lady came in and introduced herself and said she was going to ask a lot of questions. Then, a nice young man showed up and took my son to get a urinalysis started.  All of this was too much.

The pee test wasn't a success, so they came back. Many questions got asked. Many answers were stated, and some were further explained. He was honest. He even told her he had just used two hours prior. A big picture was beginning to form on the counselor lady's notepad. Each time she raised her eyebrows, she would scribble notes a little more furiously. A strange calm creeped over me. A validation. An understanding. A person who knew what I was talking about. All of the sudden,  I didn't feel so painfully alone.

"Give us a couple of days", they said. 

Seriously, what's a couple more days? 

Own Worst Enemy

Is it that you really hate me, or is it that you hate yourself?
I can distinctly remember a time in my life when I treated everyone around me like complete trash because I hated my own self so much. It seemed impossible to appreciate or respect anyone else when I had lost all respect for me. Self-harm, self-defeating behavior and self-loathing were all of the accomplishments that I could claim for myself. The darkness does that to you. It makes you your own worst enemy.

I want you to see how much you are cared for, and that even when, in complete exasperation, I utter words that I shouldn't, or I look disapprovingly at you, or I just close the door and cry, that I still love you no matter what kind of junk you are hurling my way.

Today, when I asked you to pitch in to help finish the dishes that you abandoned last night, the look on your face made me wonder if you felt entitled or just lost. Do you feel better than everyone else, or just completely incapable? I am so confused by you. I want to help, but you reject me every time I offer. I want to treat you as the grown-up that you want to be, but you act like such a child. Do I ignore the crude language, and just see your hurting heart? Or do I call out the bad, and then lead you down a path of more negativity? I want to see who you are, I want to love you deeply and without any barriers. The wall that has been built between us is hard and cold. It feels as my heart does sometimes, when I no longer want to feel this pain.

Oh dear boy, how much my entire self longs to just hold you and tell you that everything will be ok. I can't do this alone. I have asked for reinforcements, and while I have protected you from the worst that life has to offer so far, I must take your hand and bring you to a place that I may never get you back from. I have six more days with you before things either get better, or they get worse. I am scared, and I am hopeful. It's a difficult mix. I don't like it one bit.

A Different Kind of Loss

I'm feeling a different kind of loss. The loss and grief of losing a child who walks through my door every day. He is missing, but he is right here. 

How can such a sweet, absolutely delightful child grow up and embrace such disdain for everything that is love? All that is life seems to oppose him. He wields power only when there is pain. What is this? It's ugly and vile. It's hurtful and it continues to pierce me to the core of my being.

Each day that goes by, I shove the anger over what I feel I just can't do into my ever growing heap of frustrations. I sit. I think. I read. I try to write. I delete. I delete some more. I try to delete the problem from my mind, but it's just there. So pervasive. 

I miss him so much. I miss his sparkly brown eyes. I miss his enveloping hug. The kind of hug you get that just never ends, and you're ok with that idea. He used to hug with his whole body. Now, when I reach in for a moment of connection, I feel lucky if I get half a floppy arm. Sometimes I insist. I need it. I believe he really does too. I can imagine being in such a dark place, and l think I would still want people to at least try to hug me. I might hate it. But I might still love it. I won't stop. 

I don't recall the exact day that I realized I lost my son. My soul was chipped away over time, and I just knew that who he used to be was no longer here with us. I noticed strange behavior. I noticed moods. I noticed a lack of answers. I noticed a grim face. I noticed his internal struggle. I hated what was stealing him and yet I loved him through it all.

I have hope that I will see his joy again. I just know that the reality of this dark moment in life is often more than I can bear. His depression sucks everyone around him into contact with the fringes of the acidic murkiness. We've all been touched by it. It burns, and the fresh scars remain. Raw, sensitive, overly protective. 

We are only partially bandaged. Too tired from the daily battle to redress the wounds. Those who don't know us at all see just a big mess. 

Judgements. Whispers. Disapproval. 

Those who know us best can see the sores, but don't know exactly how to help. Not sure what to say, how to act, when to invite. The soothing balm of friendship has carried us. The knowledge of specific prayers being spoken, the reminders that we exist as individuals, as a family and not just a big wrong thing. 

The testing of everything we are made of, and that we believe in, is upon us. We're still holding on. 

The Process of it all

I've spent countless hours over the last many days trying to interpret insurance gibberish. I cried at a lady from my insurance company over the phone (been holding it in much??). She gave me some good news that I wouldn't be responsible for the $3,000 deductible that my son's primary insurance requires me to pay first before they pay one dime. We carry his secondary insurance and it requires us to pay zero percent of some of his care. That's right. ZERO. And it counts towards his other deductible. It was such a relief that the tears just fell out of my face. 

Getting help for someone isn't as easy as it sounds. How do I help one without hurting the others? The time off work, the co-pays, the two deductibles, the travel, the absenteeism from home. We can't afford it, and yet we can't afford not to. The latter wins every time. We'll manage. 

I'm waiting anxiously this morning for a return call from someone to schedule an assessment. Seriously, how do you "narrow down" your options for care when talking about potential life-altering circumstances? How is a mother supposed to do that? Where is the book that says, "Here, it is written, exactly who you should call and when you should do it when your child has a dual-diagnosis and there seems to be nobody who understands"? So yeah, here I am. Waiting.... 

There are a few good things. My husband is now fully on board. No longer thinking anymore that we can deal with this ourselves and that it's not just a behavior issue. My other children are in agreement and very supportive. My boss knows all that's going on so I don't feel a heavy burden at work. She also reminded me yesterday that there is NOTHING I can do until he gets professional help, so I've let some things go. I turned off my "mother-alarm" last night. You know, the one that goes off anytime a door opens, or footsteps creak on the steps? The one that keeps me just barely asleep, so that I can be completely out of bed before someone tries to leave the house? It's just like having a newborn, except with less people willing to bring meals. 

When I turned off that internal switch last night, the pain lessened. Fatigue overwhelmed me. I got a full night of sleep, I woke up smiling instead of crying. Sometimes I wonder what my husband thinks when I wake up, take a breath and am unable to move because of the pain. What kind of sleep have I been getting when I am wound up so tight that I can't unwind without help? 

At my last counseling session I was reminded that my own health right now is needing a lot of attention. The brain fog isn't the only thing I suffer from when under great amounts of stress. I forget to eat, then I forget to stop eating. My mind is so occupied that I forget important things. I forget little things too, which is the most bothersome to me. 

This week holds some big things. Big scary things in my opinion. I know where fear comes from, however, and I refuse to give it a foothold.

One step at a time.