In this city of innovation, it’s hard to comprehend the number of “influencers of opulence.”
A parade of young women in fitness gear just arrived en masse at the bakery where I’m pausing while my son has his first post-escape conference with one of his trusted advisors. The line was noticeable only because they looked like they had just come together from a yoga class. What I understood, however, is that one of the women’s shirts indicated they were from the nearby massage school. Great option. I even looked into it during my WTF period after I moved back in with my mom, the second time.
The fun part, the part I’d love to tell one of them, but won’t, I am personal friends with one of the named owners in the school. I think he dated my favorite sister at one point, in a galaxy far far away. I believe in massage as a healing mode. Somatic, touch might just be the sublingual therapy more people like my son need. They have forgotten how many ways the body can feel great: without drugs, without sex, without commitment.
Today’s environment offers pretty young women (and men) opportunities to use their bodies in many ways to earn money. I’m proud of this cohort from my friend’s school, they are making a health and healing choice. The other part of going to massage school is this: you are going to get a lot of massage as your colleagues practice. Oh, there’s one male with them. Another good choice.
My problem, when I started to evaluate the school, was how I would address only wanting to work on women. This would be a red flag. A non-starter. And I understood pretty quickly that I could not commit to the idea that massage would be my livelihood. Even at $150 a massage, that’s a lot of work to get to my mortgage payment. Of course, back then I had little more than prayers. I was running on empty. No job. No house. No way forward.
What I did at that time was get a job at Central Market as a cashier. I didn’t want to. But I knew, hibernating in my mom’s house was not going to produce any results. Well, it might make me fat again. It might prolong the pain of my breakup. It might keep me in isolation.
Here’s the thing for most of us: Isolation is death.
Today, at the coffee shop watching the young people with dreams and agency to move their lives forward, I was proud of them. I understood. I was waiting for my son to complete his therapy session to go over his psychological testing report. I think he already knew the answer, but he’d avoided reading the document. I printed out a copy and gave it to him five days ago. Today, the author and testor, and hopefully confidant, gave him the verdict.
A higher level of care is needed.
That’s where we are today. We’re aligning in our efforts. We’re also trying to give him a TEAM that is bigger than mom, dad, and step-dad. A care team is required for a life of sobriety in a world addicted to everything. Fortunately for me, I’m addicted to ice cream and coffee. I think those are within my control. Acceptable even.
And here is an odd coincidence of living in Austin most of my life: I am parked beside the building where Michael, the RC coach, and I met. Also, the building the Independent Executor purchased with some of my dad’s money. All right here. Up close and personal. At the scene of the crime, from years and years ago. I would arrive early for my coaching session with Michael and walk around the little neighborhood park. I’ve come full circle.
The coffee shop also holds so many prior lifetimes. The time I met the owner of Tribeza Magazine here to discuss how I could improve their online experience. Then he complained when I billed him $500 a few weeks later, for a series of meetings and a report on how to grow Tribeza. He never used me again, but hired some new guy from New York to come in and transform the magazine. Pretty sure that guy didn’t work out either. I think he must’ve sold the magazine. Tribeza still does not know what kind of magazine it wants to be. It loses money every year, like a vanity project.
And… Me.
I am reaching my limits. I am tired. I am sad. I am not overwhelmed, but only because I believe I am doing the right thing. I believe my son needs a full-scale intervention. I am also sure that I don’t understand what that means. I am on board with RJ’s program. Earn my son’s trust, and keep giving him offers for his path forward.
At the moment, my son sees NO PATH FORWARD. I do understand this. I also know how to be an ally. I am here. I provide food, shelter, and conversation if you want it. Today, I did not ask, “How did it go?” He will share when he’s ready. My job is not to coach or counsel my son. Today, my job is to provide shelter. Period.
Outside that circle of confidence, I am working with RJ and his mom to find some relief for my ailing son. Today, we spoke enthusiastically about cars. He lit up a bit talking about McClarens. Cool. Anything to energize. It’s the small steps. It’s the little glimmers of hope. I can see my boy peeking through. He wants to survive. He wants to thrive again. He wants a car, any car, pick a car. But the car is not salvation.
I am providing no escape pods. If he walks out of here, my house, he’s going to do so on foot. He’s welcome to either one of my bikes, but he’d have to learn to ride a bike, something that terrified him after his broken leg at the start of 5th grade.
This was the fracture that took away a lot of his hopeful, cheerful, optimistic genius. I think the divorce did the rest. He lost my advocacy. He aligned with his mom and her drama-laden overthinking. Into the void of emotional intelligence. The lack of warmth and support. My influence was limited to two weekends a month, and Thursday nights. Dinner with Nana. My mom mothered my kids more than their mother. Just like my sister mothered me while my mom was lost in her socialite glam days.
We are all here for each other. Some of us are tuned in. Most of us are tuned out. Very few of us are turned on in a healthy way. I hope to share some light with my son when he’s ready. Today, he’s quiet. He didn’t share anything about his visit with his therapist. I didn’t ask.
We debated the coolness of the exotic SUVs and how stupid they seemed to people who live within budgets. I drove my Mazda hard on the way home. Neither of us was impressed. I do look forward to seeing Lewis Hamilton in a Ferrari next year.
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