I’m not sure what the next right move is. His mom is lost. He seems dark and brooding. I’m in my room listening to this song by ZZ Top. A recollection of my past transgressions. I’ve done some stupid shit. I haven’t ever tried selling drugs. I might have driven under the influence, nearly gotten arrested, and slowed way the fuck down on my drinking.
I can’t seem to crack the code of my son’s moment. I fully understand that is not possible for me to do. I have several options.
Chill out. That’s the one I’m rolling with right now. There’s no good that will come from kicking him out tonight or tomorrow. His mom responded to my suggestion that she take him with them to DC. LOL. I was waiting for her rationale. She’s got some idea, I guess, about what to do with our son. She doesn’t really think I’ll kick him out. I’m just planning rather than acting out of anger or fear. I am not afraid. I am deeply sad. Sad as fuck. Sad with every Dad-fiber of my body. With all the longing that remains from losing my son to a deeply narcissistic wife, who quartered and filleted me in the divorce process, and then had the venom to sic the AG’s office on me. There was no threat. She was not behind on her mortgage. She was angry that my kids were enjoying time with me at my dinky little house. She wasn’t happy.
I guess this morning she’s even more unhappy. Her texts this afternoon seemed a bit lost. I get it, we’re in this together… Well, except, we’re not. I’ve been the one dealing with the reality. Our son is addicted to drugs. He walked out of rehab. He’s still got a problem with drugs. It is hard. Again, it’s so damn sad. He’s got his degree now.
I get it. He’s feeling the weight of the graduation, and now it’s time to get a job. I was that same boy/man. I was also raised by a mom who was emotionally compromised. I was a mama’s boy. I lost my dad in the divorce when I was between the ages of 6 and 8. I lost my son at 9. It’s so hard.
I cried hard when my then-wife revealed she’d been to see an attorney. I sobbed in the arms of my therapist. For my son. For his loss. I believed, even then, that my daughter would be okay. Perhaps that’s just the boy in me feeling the boy that was going to be losing my happy and positive presence. That’s what happened.
The house of Mom became a dark and sad place. She tried. She dated as quickly as she could. Using babysitters on her nights. In the decree, it said I would be given the first right of refusal if she needed child care. She couldn’t give me that win, so she farmed them out. I was happy when she got married and took his last name. A clean break. Escaping the storyline of her divorce. Her lying.
Back to the point. I’m blind. Sad. Alone. My mentors have not been available today. I am sitting in the pain and sorrow at losing my son again. This time, I fear it will be more painful. Not more painful than losing him in a drug-related shootout, but he’s going to go away soon. There is no circumstance where he gets to continue on his current path within my safe and warm home. He’s violated all the trust I could manage to offer him.
He’s going to have a harder time figuring out his next move. My ex-wife is probably winding up more deflections and excuses. Neither she nor her husband asked how I knew he was dealing again. They don’t want to know. They have their own problems. No one wants to be dropped back into crisis and conflict.
The ZZ Top tracks are soothing my soul a bit. I think I’ll change to Waiting For The Bus, my college band Felix Culpa ATX did a fun cover of that song and its companion, Jesus Just Left Chicago. Ah, music has given me so much comfort. I think it vibrates the brain chemistry a bit. Wakes up old parts. Gives the random and painful thoughts a place to go. Now, I’m thinking about my band, and … No, I’m not. It’s not working.
I’m scared. I’d rather not. I would like to be the one who runs away. Let me bolt back to the mountains of Upstate New York. Let me go to the beach. Let me be anywhere but here, working a shitty job, and giving my son the rope he needs to hang himself.
My mom is here with me, strong and supportive. She would kick him out tonight.
I think I might ask him, “What would Nana say to you about the drugs?”
I am not afraid. I am aware of my own participation in allowing the guns and unchallenged aberrant behavior. That was my first plan. Give him a place to land. Don’t apply pressure. Stay in my own lane. Hold my ground, yes, but give him space. He’s got a lot to figure out.
Boom. Nope. Bad dad, mean dad, is coming. It’s hard for me. I feel like my father’s rage is going to burst out of me. Underneath the sadness is rage. Even rage at my father for being such a fuck up. The virus of narcissism and addiction has raised its head again. I have an anger issue. I don’t know how to access it.
My son, on the other hand, thinks I’m frightening. I wonder if that’s the gun in the house issue. Oh boy. I cannot be responsible for all of my son’s bad behavior. That’s the tendency. I did not cause my son’s issues. I cannot heal my son either. That’s the harder part. I thought… I imagined… The truth has been scrawled all across the last hundred pages or so.
At the store today, I told a coworker I’m close with about my son. She said, “It often goes on until they go to jail. Call the fucking police on him.”
Damn.
No, I don’t think that’s in the plan either. I certainly don’t think my ex-wife is going to offer any ideas. She thinks he doesn’t need any more therapy. Okay, Mom, his mom, not mine, what is the next best move? I’ll wait. Realising that I’m blind, I turn off the car engine. Stop.
Last message from her at 2 pm.
