Sons and daughters are important. They also develop their own lives, coping mechanisms, and avoidance behaviors. My daughter is ghosting me. Not sure why. It happens for several reasons that I know of. I have pissed her off. She is ashamed of something she’s done or doing or about to do. She really does not want to get involved in her brother’s de-evolution again.
All fine.
My son’s response to my relocking his locked shed.
This was an hour after he assumed I’d be at work. He was right, I did have to go in. There’s another little gift he doesn’t know about. In his quest to get a static IP address for his “operations” in his bedroom, the software now notifies me when a new device accesses the wifi. His iPhone is a registered account. His burner phone, an Android device is not. He’s cloaking it, or doing some odd VPN stuff, where it uses a new ID every time it accesses the wifi.
Yesterday around 12:30 my phone notified me of a “new device.” He’s home. Thirty minutes later he formulates his response. I did not text back. I worked my 8.5-hour shift and came home. His car was in the driveway. He was nowhere to be found. His room was dark, I assumed he was sleeping. As I wrapped my day up around 11 pm, I looked around for him. Maybe a friend came and picked him up.
He was in the shed, AirPods blasting, in his tactical gear with a facemask, fondling his new guns. Why is he wearing a face covering when he’s playing in is private shed? Oh… He is playing.
It’s not fun for me.
I called him Mom later in the afternoon. I had an idea.
Um, yeah. I never call you unless it’s fucking urgent.
I imagined she might ping me back when she was available. I mean this is our son in crisis. And no.
I said goodnight to my son. Let him oogle his weapons for me. I woke for my normal 2 am pee and he was still shedding. This morning he is wrapped like a small child in his bed. So fragile. So afraid. So weaponized.
Here’s the idea I was going to share with my ex-wife.
I’m going to ask him to move out. That’s it. No conflict. No accusations. I am not his parole officer. I don’t need to rehabilitate him. I can’t. So, I will ease the event, in my mind, and simply say, “It’s not working out for me.”
I don’t think he will fight. When he asks why, I will ask to see his burner phone unlocked. He will refuse. I will give him two weeks to find a place and move. Tough love.
Like the last time I alerted my ex-wife to my son’s status, before Thanksgiving, there will be no follow-up. I have told them I’m off on Saturday, so that’s the day I’m going to kick my son out. At work, yesterday, I arranged for someone to pick up my Friday shift. There’s no reason to wait.
I am sick of his military shit all over the house. I am not his Airbnb.
There have been some fun moments. The night he cut one of his shipping boxes (they arrive 5 – 10 a week) into a cat hotel. He wanted me to participate. He’s charming when he’s not frightening.
When I told my friend and manager at work that I was dropping my shift Friday, he was concerned. I’d shared a few of the details with him over the last few weeks. He worried about the guns and my son’s response to being kicked out.
I was worried about my ex-wife’s response. I’m glad that “ex” is on her label. No thank you. Her ability to “frame” situations into oblivion is amazing. I can be trying to work out the most critical detail of my current life with her, and she’s on a call. “Is it an emergency?” The joke goes.
Kid arrives crying. “Mom, I’m hurt!”
“Did you break a bone?”
“No.”
“Are you bleeding?”
“Yes”
“Let me see.”
Kid offers up a scraped arm.
“You’re fine. I’ll put some Bactine on it later. I’m busy.”
Even as she was outted in couples therapy about going to consult with a lawyer, she said, “I need a few days to process this.”
My demand. “Are you asking for a divorce?”
The most impactful and important moment in the lives of both of us and both of our kids, 6 – 8. “I need to get back to you. I’m overwhelmed.”
We are all overwhelmed. We are all suffering under my son’s bullshit. Sure, he’s living with me. And she and her husband haven’t had to deal with any of the trauma exhibiting in ever escalating behavior.
“is it urgent”
Not even time to put in the question mark. The truth is, she’d rather not know.
That’s the plan then. I am on my own. I’ve consulted with my care team, my doctor. My spiritual advisors give me high marks for how I’m handling the situation. Gee, thanks.
Today is Thursday. I work from 10 am to 6:30 pm. He will be curled like a prawn in his chaotic bedroom and sleeping until late afternoon. I’m going to guess he will go out tonight, about the time I get home, or just before I arrive.
I am off tomorrow. And… So is he.
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